AWJ 


JUl     3 N  GORDON 


OTHER  NOVELS  BY  JULIEN  GORDON. 

Poppcea. 

A  Diplomat's  Diary.  A  Successful  Man. 

Vampires,  and  Mademoiselle  Reseda. 

Two  stories  in  one  book. 

I2mo.     Cloth,  $ i. oo per  volume. 
A  Diplomat's  Diary.     Paper,  50  cents. 


A  WEDDING 


AND 


OTHER  STORIES 


J 

u 


"  Poppeea"  "  A  Diplomat's  Diary  " 
"A  Successful  Man"    "Vampires" 


PHILADELPHIA 
J.  E.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1895, 

BY 
J.  GRINNELL  CRUGER. 


ELECTROTYPED  AND  PRINTED  BY  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  PHILADELPHIA,  U.S.A. 


Contents 


. 

PAGE 

A  WEDDING 7 

THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 21 

MORNING  MISTS 108 

CONQUERED 144 

RAKING  STRAWS 172 

THE  MOUJIK 230 


222S355 


A   Wedding 


SHE  used  to  keep  him  waiting  a  half-hour  or  more. 
Then  she  tripped  in,  stumbling  over  her  gown,  a 
pink,  loose  thing,  drawn  in  by  a  silken  cord  about  her 
hips  ;  her  hair  piled  up  a  trifle  hastily,  caught  in  its 
blond  tortoise-shell  comb ;  stretching  her  arms ;  yawn- 
ing under  those  white  eyelids,  a  little  swollen  from  sleep. 

"  Dear  me  !  oh,  deary  me  !"  she  would  say  to  him. 
"  I  danced  so  late, — so  late  !" 

He,  in  the  mean  while,  had  sat  at  the  piano  in  the 
blue-and-gold  ball-room,  fuming,  fretting,  impatient, 
with  his  great  patience.  The  belated  servants,  always 
taken  unawares,  always  apologetic,  hurrying :  "  Quick  ! 
quick  !  shut  the  window  !  Monsieur  will  be  cold. — 
Miss  will  be  down  in  a  minute,  sir. — Quick  !"  A  maid 
at  the  open  casement,  staring  at  the  street,  would  turn, 
in  deprecation.  The  man  who  made  the  fires  would 
come  in  with  an  armful  of  chips  and  papers,  blowing  on 
his  fingers,  tightly  grasping  his  burden.  He  would 
kneel  at  the  splendid  grate,  strike  his  match,  and  watch 
for  a  moment  the  blue  flame  tremble  upwards  and  as- 
cend ;  then  he  would  shuffle  out,  on  his  carpet  slippers, 
returning  directly  with  the  huge  logs.  By  and  by  a 
warmth  would  glow,  a  redolent  flame.  Some  fading 

7 


8  A    WEDDING 

roses  filled  the  apartment  with  a  searching,  sad  fra- 
grance, and  the  morning  sun  of  a  new  day  streamed 
through  the  looped,  rich  curtainings,  with  its  promises 
and  its  forebodings.  Sometimes  there  had  been  a  dance 
here  the  night  before.  There  would  be  trailed  debris 
of  lace  or  tulle,  torn  from  a  girl's  floating  dress ;  a 
flower  fallen  and  crushed  from  a  woman's  bosom  lying 
still  unswept  on  the  floor's  polished  surface.  The 
memory  of  a  lost  waltz  lingered  ;  a  lamp  half  turned 
out  blinked  forgotten  ;  drops  of  wax  under  the  chande- 
liers ;  an  empty  wineglass  on  the  mantel-shelf ;  a  torn 
glove,  hastily  left  on  a  chair ;  a  fan,  half  open,  on  a 
window-seat.  One  could  almost  imagine  one  heard  soft 
whisperings, — remnants  of  merriment,  a  sigh  as  of 
youth. 

By  and  by  the  butler  would  appear  in  the  door-way, 
— correct,  pompous,  rosy  from  his  ablutions,  freshly 
shaven  : 

"Miss  Nina  will  be  down  in  a  moment,  sir.  She 
bid  me  say,  sir,  she  overslept." 

Overslept  !  He  liked  the  word.  She,  Aurora  !  She 
who  might  well  have  touched  the  lip  of  Tithonus  with 
benign  gift  of  immortality.  Aurora !  late  and  a  little 
weary  ! 

He  liked  to  think  about  those  slumbers  :  that  sweet, 
fair  face  on  the  lace  pillow  ;  those  girlish  hands  a  little 
blue  and  red  with  cold,  their  skin  a  trifle  roughened, 
those  hands  over  which  Love  had  hardly  breathed,  had 
never  passed, — Love  the  vampire  which  sucks  the  blood 
away  and  leaves  a  pallor> 

Once  she  had  written  him  a  note,  and  she  had  mis- 
spelled a  word, — a  pornmon,  easy  word  she  should  have 
known.  Qh,  adorable  !  How  dear  is  a  weakness  in 
one  we  love  !  So  he  had  said  to  himself  in  the  wretched 


WEDDING  9 

garret  he  called  his  home,  while  he  lighted  his  tallow 
candle  to  read  her  message  over  and  sipped  his  beer 
and  munched  his  beef  and  bread. 

He  hadn't  many  scholars.  That  was  why  he  could 
afford  to  wait  for  them — they  dallied  with  his  time 
cruelly — why  he  could  prolong  his  lessons  long  after 
the  hour,  taking  in  each  and  all  of  his  pupils  a  profound, 
conscientious,  individual  interest. 

He  was  a  poor  Polish  Hebrew.  He  had  a  big  nose, 
small  dark-blue  eyes,  and  nervous  lips.  His  clothes 
were  shabby,  and  he  wore  glasses,  and  his  hair  was 
greasy  and  thick.  He  was  about  thirty  years  old.  He 
was  getting  along,  but  success  had  been  tardy,  nay,  was 
not  yet  here.  He  was  very  ugly,  poor  Grimowsky,  but 
he  had  a  soul  of  fire.  It  awoke  in  his  glance  some- 
times ;  it  shook  his  hands  when  he  played.  It  seized 
his  listeners, — such  of  them  at  least  as  had  imagination. 

It  didn't  say  much  to  Nina.  Nina  hated  music. 
Nina  was  a  very  practical  young  woman.  She  liked  to 
go  to  the  opera.  There,  sitting  by  her  handsome 
mother  in  the  glare  of  the  lights,  in  her  white  frock, 
with  a  silver  butterfly  in  her  hair,  she  listened  pensively 
— her  eyes  at  least  were  pensive — to  the  woes  of  Tristan 
and  Isolde,  or  laughed  at  the  great  dragon's  mouth 
which  hurled  its  fumes  on  Siegfried's  golden  hair.  She 
would  whisper  behind  her  fan  then  to  her  boy  admirers 
that  she  ' '  adored  Wagner. ' ' 

But  this  was  so  different.  This  was  a  task.  Mr. 
Grimowsky  was  cross  because  she  did  not  know  her 
lesson.  She  never  knew  it.  They  used  to  hunt  all 
over  and  about  the  piano  for  the  book.  It  was  always 
lost. 

"  How  can  one  learn  when  the  book  is  lost?" 

"The  scales?    Yes,"  she  could  play  them.     Then 


10  A   WED  DIN 

she  would  begin,  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  with 
stiff  fingers. 

"Exercises?  Oh,  bother!  Yes,"  she  "remem- 
bered the  old  ones." 

By  and  by  she  would  look  up  and  at  him  : 

"To-day,  to-day  you  must  play  for  me.  The  next 
time  I  will  do  better." 

Then  in  despair  he  would  take  her  seat,  open  the  new 
sonata,  cantata,  barcarolle,  say  a  few  words  as  to  its 
motif,  meaning,  merit,  while  she  listened  with  eyes  on 
the  ceiling,  absently.  Then  he  would  begin. 

She  liked  this  best  because  she  could  sit  on  the  sofa 
and  think  her  own  thoughts.  What  were  they  ?  While 
his  heart  beat  to  the  pulsation  of  the  measure,  his  being 
vibrated  to  divine  melodies, — for  was  he  not  near  her? 
— she  remembered  that  Sally  Graves  was  coming  to 
breakfast,  and  that  she  must  be  at  her  dress-maker's  at 
one  o'clock,  and  that  to-night  there  was  the  dinner  and 

the  ball,  and Oh,  heavens  !  she  had  forgotten  to 

tell  her  maid  about  her  gray  boots  ;  and  she  wanted  to 
wear  her  gray  gown.  What  should  she  do  ?  what  should 
she  do  ? — for  the  pink  cashmere  that  rose  and  fell  on 
that  soft,  virginal  breast  hid  no  mystery  and  no  dream. 

So  these  two  sat  together  for  an  hour,  miles  apart. 
He  had  never  a  thought  or  a  desire  that  could  have 
disturbed  her  maiden  modesty,  although  he  thought  of 
her  always,  and  she  thought  of  him  no  more  than  she 
did  of  Sally  Graves  and  the  dress-maker,  those  neces- 
sary adjuncts  of  an  idle  day.  The  dinner,  the  ball, 
were  autre  chose. 

Here  crept  in  Vanity,  with  its  flutter.  She  knew 
herself  to  be  charming  in  the  gray  tulle. 

"  'Pon  my  honor,"  Larry  Lathrop  had  said  to  her  as 
he  took  her  hand  in  the  cotillon,  "  you're  a  stunner  in 


A    WEDDING  II 

that  gown."  And  Larry  Lathrop  knew  what  he  was 
about :  all  the  women  and  the  girls  said  that  he  did. 
Nina  had  a  large  belief  in  public  opinion.  She  was 
conservative.  It  is  a  safe  womanly  trait. 

One  day  Grimowsky,  punctual  to  the  appointed  hour, 
found  an  unusual  stir  and  unrest  in  the  house.  At  her 
last  lesson  she  had  been  more  than  usually  indifferent, 
starting  at  sounds,  with  a  note  in  her  breast  and  some 
lilies  in  her  lap,  and  the  lesson  had  languished,  and 
he  had  shaken  his  head  at  her,  and  she  had  thrown  hers 
back  and  laughed. 

' '  You  look  so  funny,  cross,  like  that, ' '  she  had  said. 

Then  he,  too,  had  laughed,  but  less  merrily.  There 
was  always  a  tear  drowned  somewhere  in  Grimowsky' s 
laughter.  How  well  I  remember  his  smile,  and  his 
shiny  redingote,  and  his  roll  of  music  ! 

Well,  as  I  say,  one  morning  there  seemed  to  be  some- 
thing in  the  air,  as  the  French  say.  The  ball-room, 
where  the  grand  piano  stood,  opened  on  a  library,  a 
sumptuous  apartment,  filled  with  its  wisdom  and  its 
luxury.  Through  the  open  door  Grimowsky  heard  a 
sound  of  voices  and  saw  that  there  were  several  persons 
gathered  there, — Nina's  father,  with  his  round  geniality, 
and  her  beautiful,  graceful,  stately  mamma,  a  little  lan- 
guid, a  little  worn, — not  much, — in  the  cruel,  self-re- 
vealing light  of  morn.  Those  traces  of  laughter  and 
of  weeping  that  the  years  leave,  that  the  day  reveals, 
the  kindly  night  effaces.  Often  where  the  world  claimed 
them,  Nina  and  her  mother,  people  turned  and  asked, 
"Sisters?"  and  the  older  woman's  heart  would  swell 
with  satisfaction.  "  A  little  longer,"  she  would  think. 

To-day  the  mother  was  alert,  interested,  almost  eager, 
while  in  the  father's  keen  eyes  shone  a  gleam  of  doubt 
and  of  annoyance,  and  his  forehead  was  puckered  as  if 


12  A    WEDDING 

with  a  suggestion  of  anxiety.  This  is  natural.  The 
mother  has  her  ambition,  the  father  only  his  love. 

There  was  Mr.  Parks,  the  family  solicitor,  with  his 
assistant,  and  another  lawyer  was  there, — a  German 
Hercules  with  Americanized  gutturals,  and  a  heavy 
voice,  and  a  cold  in  his  head.  Every  time  he  blew  his 
nose  Nina's  father  frowned  angrily.  They  were  talk- 
ing audibly,  as  well-bred  persons  do,  with  whom  in- 
feriors do  not  count,  and  whose  motto  is  that  the  only 
prudence  is  not  to  be  afraid, — a  tenet  as  wise  for  the 
drawing-room  as  for  the  battle-field. 

Nina  slipped  into  the  room  where  Grimowsky  sat 
waiting.  "I'll  come  directly,"  she  said,  with  a  wave  of 
her  hand,  and  then  swiftly  moved  to  the  library  door 
on  tiptoe  and  listened, — listened  with  avidity,  and  with 
a  gleam  of  curious  wonderment.  She  came  back  just  a 
little  breathless  from  what  she  had  heard,  and  then — 
turn,  turn,  turn,  and  turn,  turn,  turn,  and 

"Oh,  deary  me!  oh,  deary  me!  I  have  forgotten 
all  I  ever  knew !' '  And  her  lovely  lip  quivered  with 
the  wearisomeness  of  it  all. 

The  next  time  he  came,  a  strange  thing  had  hap- 
pened. Nina  was  in  the  room  before  him.  Yes,  in 
the  room,  dressed  not  in  the  pink  gown,  but  in  a  walk- 
ing-costume and  a  velvet  toque,  and  .  .  .  she  was  not 
alone.  With  her  there  was  a  man.  Grimowsky  looked 
at  him.  He  was  the  handsomest  male  creature  he  had 
ever  seen.  They  were  sitting  together  on  a  stiff  Louis 
Seize  sofa  in  front  of  the  mirror,  in  which  their  two 
heads  were  reflected, — her  brown  and  his  yellow  one. 
He  was  leaning  towards  her.  The  sofa  was  a  very  long 
one,  and  a  couple  of  yards  of  its  figured  tapestries 
stretched  between  them.  He  had  his  cane  and  hat 
across  his  knees,  and  was  bending  forward  with  an  ex- 


A    WEDDING  13 

pression  half  of  admiration  and  half  of  amusement  on 
his  regular,  clear-cut  features.  She  was  looking  down 
at  the  point  of  her  walking-boot,  with  a  shy  coquetry 
furtively  suggested  in  her  attitude.  He  was  speaking 
earnestly,  but  when  Grimowsky  came  in  he  stopped. 

' '  Do  I  disturb  you  ?' '  said  the  music-master.  He 
had  a  harsh  voice  which  only  to  the  ear  of  sympathy 
revealed  its  note  of  pathos. 

The  stranger  rose,  bowed,  said  a  few  more  words 
very  low  over  Nina's  hand,  twirled  his  golden  mous- 
tache, murmured,  "A  ce  soir,  mademoiselle,"  and  left 
the  room. 

As  he  backed  out,  not  ungracefully,  she  called  out 
after  him, — 

"  He's  got  to  let  you  wear  your  uniform,  you  know, 
or  I  won't  be  present." 

Nina  took  her  lesson  in  silence.  It  was  in  the  news- 
paper the  next  morning,  which  he  read  on  the  ferry- 
boat of  the  foggy,  dirty  river  across  which  he  came 
daily  to  his  scholars,  that  Mr.  Grimowsky  discovered 
the  announcement  that  the  Baron  Carl  von  Staube 

would  shortly  wed  the  fair  daughter  of  Mr.  .  It 

was  further  elucidated  that  the  young  lady  had  danced 
twice  with  the  young  gentleman  at  Hombourg  the 
previous  summer,  and  that  she  had  returned  to  Amer- 
ica and  thought  of  him  no  more,  but  that  he  had  re- 
membered and  followed  her.  And  then  there  was  a 
list  of  the  bridemaidens,  and  that  question  of  utmost 
import  as  to  whether  the  young  gentleman's  Emperor 
would  permit  him  to  wear  his  uniform  at  his  approach- 
ing marriage, — that  gorgeous  military  plumage  which 
he  sported  on  the  other  side  of  the  water  and  before 
which  women  succumbed.  Everything  must  now  be 
in  suspense  until  this  momentous  doubt  was  met. 

2 


14  A    WEDDING 

f 
Well,  Grimowsky  read,  and  he  went  on  his  way,  and 

he  gave  his  lessons,  and  he  played  to  his  pupils,  fer- 
vently, despairingly  ;  and  he  stumbled  home  and  up 
his  garret  stairs,  where  we  will  not  follow  him. 

When  he  went  to  her  the  last  time  she  said  a  word 
to  him. 

"  It  is  next  Thursday,"  she  said, — "  next  Thursday. 
And  here, — I  have  brought  you  a  card," — and  she 
pulled  a  bit  of  pasteboard  from  her  belt, — "  because,  you 
see,  Mr.  Grimowsky,  I  want  you  to  have  a  good  place. 
Every  one  is  going  who  takes  any  interest  in  me ; 
everybody, — the  servants,  even.  They  want  to  see. 
There's  going  to  be  an  immense  crush.  There  will 
be  ten  bridesmaids,  and  they'll  wear  pink  veils,  and 

Car 1  mean  Baron  von  Staube  will  wear  his  uniform. 

The  Emperor  cabled.  It  was  kind  of  him.  It  is  su- 
perb. And  now,"  she  continued,  "  if  you  will  excuse 
me,  I  will  not  take  my  lesson  to-day.  Good-by,  good- 
by  !  Don't  forget  your  bad,  bad  pupil.  You  will  not, 
will  you  ?' ' 

He  said,  "No,  I  won't  forget,"  and  he  took  the 
card  from  her  hand.  And  then  something  came  over 
him, — a  great  yearning,  a  sickness, — and,  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  he  lifted  his  eyes  and  they  met  hers. 

What  did  she  see  in  their  melancholy  depths?  It 
must  have  been  something  that  shook  her  heart,  for 
even  over  that  thin  and  flippant  nature  there  blew  a 
faint  intuition  of  pain,  of  a  suffering  so  terrible,  so 
acute,  so  hopeless,  that  she  moved  uneasily  a  few  steps 
away  from  him,  her  lovely,  candid  eyes  still  resting 
upon  his. 

"  Don't  you  like  ...  to  ...  to  come?"  she  said. 
"I  thought  .  .  .  I  hoped  .  .  ." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  shortly,  "  I  will  come." 


A    WEDDING  15 

She  sped  across  the  parquet  to  the  door.  When  she 
reached  its  threshold,  some  impulse,  forever  unex- 
plained, forced  her  back  to  him.  He  was  standing  as 
she  had  left  him,  his  arms  hanging  by  his  side,  the  roll 
of  music  he  had  brought  grasped  in  his  knotty  fingers, 
and  he  looked  so  poor,  so  forlorn,  so  lonely,  that  the 
girl  felt  a  sudden  pity  rise  and  surge  in  her  unawakened 
heart.  She  faltered  a  minute,  and  then  she  came  to  him 
quickly. 

"Say  good-by  to  me,  monsieur,"  she  said,  gently. 
' '  Take  my  hand. ' ' 

He  took  it  in  his  own,  and  then  his  face  was  con- 
vulsed with  an  expression  which  she  had  never  seen 
before  on  any  countenance.  The  sunken  eyes  grew 
sombre,  the  lips  contracted,  and  the  lines  deepened  on 
those  thin,  pale  cheeks. 

Did  Nina  understand  ?  Who  shall  say  ?  She  was  a 
woman.  In  a  moment  he  had  dropped  her  hand  and 
she  was  gone. 

It  was  a  brave  affair.  So  said  the  tiptoeing  crowd, — 
the  smart  ladies  in  their  dainty  finery,  the  ushers  in 
their  frock-coats,  with  their  gardenia  flowers,  my  lady's 
maid  in  the  gallery  and  my  gentleman's  valet  on  the 
stairs.  And  he,  handsome  Titan,  wore  the  uniform, 
with  its  epaulettes,  its  sword,  and  its  casque. 

His  own  feelings  were  mingled.  He  was  bored  to 
death,  and  at  the  same  time  relieved.  She  was  a  dear 
/little  thing,  and  pretty ;  and  it  was  so  much  better  to 
be  married  in  America,  where  Meline  could  not  come 
and  make  a  fuss,  mayhap  forbid  the  banns  or  disturb 
the  ceremony.  By  the  time  they  went  back  she  would 
have  made  up  her  mind.  She  had  always  been  un- 
reasonable and  violent.  He  was  well  out  of  that.  And, 


1 6  A    WEDDING 

then,  this  income.  God !  what  a  comfort,  to  be  able 
to  settle  his  debts  at  last,  snub  his  creditors,  hold  up 
his  head  at  the  club,  and  put  a  new  roof  on  his  leaky 
paternal  domain  !  So,  on  the  whole,  he  was  well 
pleased.  And  then  there  was  the  moral  side.  His 
parents  were  enchanted.  This  gave  him  agreeable 
titillations  of  virtue.  They  hadn't  liked  Meline.  Ah, 
yes,  the  moral.  Morality  was  always  excellent. 

Who  Meline  was  is  not  our  business.  She  does  not 
belong  to  this  narrative.  Stern  moralists  will  probably 
consider  it  fortunate. 

At  three  o'clock  the  young  couple,  deluged  with  rice 
and  slippers  and  flowers,  pelted,  tormented,  kissed,  and 
wept  over,  waved  their  last  wave  through  the  carriage 
window,  James  and  Thomas  shivering  on  the  box,  in 
their  furs,  with  an  anomaly  of  white  violets  and  ribbons 
on  their  breasts.  They  started  on  that  long  journey 
to  which  the  priest  had  said  to  them  that  the  grave 
alone  should  cry,  "  Halt !" 

But  its  first  resting-place  was  nigh.  They  were  less 
than  an  hour  in  the  train,  and  then  a  short  drive 
brought  them  to  a  secluded  bower,  the  country  home 
of  a  near  relative,  where  the  honeymoon  was  to  be 
enjoyed. 

There  are  various  opinions  as  to  the  pleasures  of  a 
honeymoon.  There  exist  cynics  who  say,  ' '  Peut-£tre. ' ' 

Everything  here,  however,  looked  very  fair.  The 
bride  so  charming  in  her  taut  travelling-apparel,  the 
groom  only  a  little  less  handsome  and  valiant  in  his  ele- 
gant, Astrakan-lined  and  -collared  coat,  than  he  had 
been  at  the  altar.  His  polished  nails  glinted  as  he 
pulled  off  his  driving-gloves  to  help  his  young  wife 
alight  from  the  platform  of  the  train.  People  looked 
out  at  them  and  said,  "They  are  beautiful." 


A    WEDDING  I? 

A  maid,  sent  on  before  in  an  earlier  train,  met  her 
mistress  with  the  other  servants  at  the  house  door,  and 
the  young  woman  asked  permission  to  ascend  for  a 
moment  to  the  room  allotted  her  before  she  should  join 
her  new  master  for  a  ramble  in  the  grounds.  The  din- 
ner would  not  be  served  for  several  hours  ;  there  was 
plenty  of  time  for  her  to  rest,  to  take  breath  after  this 
wonderful  day. 

He  gallantly  raised  her  fingers  to  his  lips,  lingered  a 
moment,  lighted  a  cigarette,  and  they  parted  for  the 
first  time  since  they  had  been  made  one. 

"Miss  Nina, — I  beg  your  pardon, — madam,"  said 
the  English  maid,  blushing,  ' '  I  have  got  something  to 
give  you  that  a  messenger-man  brought  to-day.  He 
gave  it  to  me,  miss — madam,  and  he  said  no  one  must 
have  it  but  you,  and  you  must  have  it  before  evening." 

She  fumbled  in  the  open  mouth  of  a  leather  golden- 
monogrammed  travelling-bag,  and  brought  forth  a 
small  parcel.  It  was  wrapped  in  a  clean  white  paper 
and  tied  with  a  piece  of  string.  It  was  directed  to 
Baroness  von  Staube,  and  Nina  read  her  new  name 
with  pride  and  some  excitement.  ' '  How  pretty  !' '  she 
thought.  ' '  I  am  a  married  woman.  How  funny  !  I 
like  it,  though.  But  what  can  this  be?" 

Somewhat  dazed  and  fatigued  from  the  morning's 
agitation,  she  dismissed  her  maid,  saying  she  wished 
to  be  alone  and  would  rest  by  the  window  a  half-hour. 
She  took  off  her  hat  and  sank  in  a  low  arm-chair.  In 
the  grate  burned  a  bright  fire. 

And,  because  she  had  nothing  better  to  do,  she 
began  to  untie  the  parcel  indolently.  It  was  a  col- 
lection of  papers  of  various  sizes  on  which  a  cramped 
hand  had  traced  many  words.  The  first  thing  that  she 
read  was  this  poem  : 

b  2* 


1 8  A    WEDDING 

C'est  Vange  envole  que  je  pleure,  , 

Qui  m'eveillait  en  me  baisant 
Dans  des  songes  eclos  a  I  'heure 

De  I'etoile  et  du  ver  luisant. 

Toi,  quifus  un  si  doux  mystere, 

Fanldme  triste  et  gracieux, 
Pourquoi  venais-tu  sur  la  terre 

Comme  les  anges  sont  aux  deux  ? 

Pourquoi,  dans  ces  plaisirs  sans  nombre, 

Oublis  du  terrestre  sejour, 
Ombre  reveuse,  aimai-je  une  ombre 

Infidele  &  I'aube  du  jour? 

She  read  at  first  curiously,  then  interested,  and  at 
last  ardently  with  parted  lips  and  heaving  bosom. 
These  are  some  of  the  words  she  read.  They  were  all 
in  French,  but  we  will  give  them  here  as  best  we  can 
in  her  own  tongue  : 

"  Those  bitter-sweet  grapes,  thy  lips,  hang  just  above 
me.  I  would  not  touch  them  if  I  could.  It  is  enough 
for  me  to  divine  the  savor  of  thy  breath,  the  red  that 
lies  on  the  corner  of  thy  mouth.  Thy  mouth  !  Sweet 
harmony,  sweet  wild  flower,  ripened  for  heaven's  kiss. 
Thy  image  floats  before  me  like  the  mirage  in  a  desert 
land  of  silent  woods  and  sleeping  waters.  Why  hide 
thyself  in  mists  ?  I  know  thee  all.  When  thou  sleep- 
est  I  wake. 

"  I  tremble  drinking  bitter  delights.  Oh,  what  agony 
grasps  my  soul ! 

"Thy  beauty  is  like  the  sound  of  the  hours  at  night 
stepping  softly,  softly,  masked  in  shadows.  Let  its 
cadences  lull  thee  to  enchanted  shores.  Oh,  cruel, 
cruel,  soulless  child  !  Will  thy  heart  forever  sleep  ? 
Have  the  gods  no  pity  for  tired  things,  that  they  so 


A    WEDDING  19 

wring  my  heart  while  thou  art  sleeping  like  an  infant  in 
its  mother's  arms  ? 

' '  I  was  trembling,  dazzled,  but  you  saw  it  not.  I 
cannot  read  your  thoughts  ;  I  am  too  dull,  too  old. 
But,  though  I  may  be  old  with  want  and  poverty  and 
despair,  near  you,  mademoiselle,  I  have  sometimes  felt 
like  a  god  ;  for  the  hunger  to  possess  is  animal,  but  the 
thirst  to  be  possessed  is  godlike.  And  this  is  all  I  ask, 
that  you  should  possess  me.  What  madness  to  have 
loved  you  so  if  I  could  not  even  know  your  thought  ! 
This  evening  I  am  thinking  of  thy  laughter,  shaken 
from  roses.  How  gay  and  joyous  a  thing  it  rings  !  It 

fills  my  poor  room.  Sometimes  thy  eyes  are  sad 

or  do  I  only  fancy  this  !  Oh,  beautiful  eyes  and  soft 
laughter,  that  come  to  me  in  my  dreams  ! 

' '  I  played  to  you,  and  you  listened.  When  I  had 
finished,  mademoiselle,  you  said,  'Ah  !  that  is  nice,' — 
and  I  had  given  you  my  soul.  Was  that  kind  ?  Could 
you  find  no  better  word  ?  none  ?  That  was  a  cold  word. 
I  know  you  are  only  a  child — pardon  !  Do  I  really 
love  you?  Ask  the  tides,  the  winds,  the  waves,  the 
storms.  I  cannot  answer  you  ;  for  I  am  lost.  How 
weary  the  saved  must  be  in  that  heaven  where  thou  art 
not,  my  beloved  !  Oh,  Nina,  Nina  !  I  fear  thy  foot- 
step, I  fear  thy  hand,  which  I  seek  in  the  darkness.  I 
listen  for  thy  voice  which  calls  me.  I  have  no  courage. 
Thy  breath  burns  my  cheek.  It  is  not  Death.  It  is 
all-conquering  love.  But  I  would  not  harm  or  touch 
thee,  dear.  I  would  not  dare — no,  not  a  touch.  Only 
a  sigh,  a  thought.  Why  do  I  live,  Nina?— I,  ugly 
worm,  and  thou  so  beautiful  and  fresh.  Oh,  thy 
beauty !"  .  .  . 

And  thus  on  more  and  more  she  read  and  she  read, 
this  new  Eve  whom  the  serpent  had  found  idling  under 


80  A    WEDDING 

her  boughs.  And  then  there  was  a  brisk  step,  and  a 
whistle,  and  a  hand  upon  the  door-knob. 

"Well,  my  little  birdling,"  he  said,  opening  the 
door  with  a  vanquishing  gesture  half  impatient  and 
half  amused, — "well,  /  wait." 

But  to  Nina  an  unknown  tongue  had  spoken.  It  had 
spoken.  She  had  listened.  She  thought  it  sweet. 
For  the  first  time  she  had  been  touched  by  the  hidden 
springs  of  passion.  Her  cheeks  were  aflame. 

She  thrust  the  papers  into  her  bosom,  turning  angrily 
at  this  disturbance.  Who  was  this  who  dared  invade 
her  privacy  ? 

Her  young  husband  came  forward  into  the  room. 
She  looked  up  :  she  had  forgotten  him. 


The  First  Flight 


MRS.  HIGHTY  TIGHTY  rested  from  her  labors. 
She  thought  that  they  were  ' '  very  good. ' '  She 
took  a  long  breath  and  looked  about  her.  Her  real 
name  was  Mrs.  Hyatt  Titus,  but  her  husband's  cousin, 
Mrs.  Hatch,  who  was  humorous,  had  given  her  the 
sobriquet.  She  had  been  assiduously  occupied  for 
eighteen  long  years  in  bringing  up  Miss  Hyatt  Titus, 
and  now  the  rest  was  to  come  and  the  recompense. 
Miss  Hyatt  Titus,  or  rather  Miss  Highty  Tighty,  was 
"brought  up."  The  birdling  was  fledged.  The  first 
flight  imminent.  She  was  a  graceful  and  pretty  girl 
with  soft  eyes  and  a  fresh  complexion.  She  played  on 
the  piano  and  the  zither  to  such  audiences  as  had  the 
fortitude  to  listen.  She  drew  noses  and  ears  in  crayon 
every  Saturday  with  a  drawing-master.  She  spoke 
French — such  French  as  it  was — she  even  managed  a 
little  German — with  her  governess  and  a  dictionary. 
Strangers  knew  nothing  of  this  crutch  ;  but  her  cousins 
the  Hatches,  those  inconvenient  cousins,  knew  it ;  and 
the  German  baron  who  accosted  her  in  his  own  tongue, 
having  heard  she  was  a  polyglot,  when  he  came  up  to 
the  Club  on  the  lake,  had  been  forced  to  suspect  that 

21 


22  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

she  had  not  understood  a  word  he  had  said  to  her.  It 
did  not  matter,  because  she  was  really  pretty,  and  had 
a  knack  of  putting  up  her  hair  becomingly.  But  she 
had  herself  been  profoundly  mortified.  It  had  re- 
mained one  of  the  stinging  memories  of  her  youth. 

The  Highty  Tightys  were  well  off,  and  had  only  this 
one  little  duckling.  They  lived  on  a  lake  where  the 
buckling  had  bathed  and  rowed  and  swum  ever  since 
her  babyhood.  It  was  shallow,  and  when  she  grew 
tired  or  frightened,  if  the  tide  was  low,  she  could  stand 
up  in  the  water  and  wade  to  the  shore.  It  was  a  salt- 
water lake  which  was  fed  by  a  creek  from  the  open  sea. 
It  was  the  same  with  her  boating.  There  were  no 
breakers,  no  surprises.  It  was  all  very  safe  and  easy. 
The  first  steps  of  life  are  made  easy  for  the  young. 

Miss  Highty  Tighty  rode  a  quiet  little  cob  twenty 
years  old  that  had  the  gait  of  a  rocking-chair.  Never- 
theless her  neighbors  felt  called  upon  to  declare,  par- 
ticularly such  as  were  under  obligations  to  her  parents, 
that  she  was  a  bold  and  accomplished  horsewoman  ; 
and,  in  fact,  her  figure  did  look  well  swaying  against  a 
sunset  sky.  Once  she  mounted  a  prancing  steed  to 
whose  crupper  one  of  the  club  men  had  swung  her. 
The  horse  kicked  ;  she  fell  on  her  face  and  scraped  her 
shapely  nose.  This  was  another  memory  which  haunted 
her  with  unpleasant  persistence.  The  young  man  only 
thought  it  was  a  pity  about  her  nose.  Such  discomfit- 
ures are  of  little  importance  to  others,  and  only  weigh 
on  us  when  we  are  very  young.  They  appear  cheap  to 
the  callousness  and  effrontery  of  middle  age. 

Besides  the  house  of  Highty  Tighty,  which  was  well 
ventilated,  salubrious,  large,  extremely  clean,  and 
wherein  hung  a  few  fine  pictures  purchased  abroad  by 
Mr.  Titus,  and  some  comfortable  though  not  very 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  23 

artistic  furniture  purchased  by  his  wife,  there  were  two 
other  habitations  on  the  lake,  — the  house  of  Hatch,  and 
the  Club. 

The  Hatches  were  second-cousins  of  the  Hyatt  Ti- 
tuses,  and  not  well  off.  It  is  difficult  to  be  well  off 
when  one  has  nine  children.  There  were  eight  Misses 
Hatch,  of  whom  the  eldest  was  twenty-two ;  the 
youngest-hatched  of  all,  the  son,  was  seven  years  old. 
He  was  a  dirty,  freckled-faced  little  boy,  who  passed 
his  entire  life  in  the  lake  and  came  out  of  it  dirtier  at 
evening  than  when  he  went  in.  He  used  to  be  hastily 
wiped  off  by  a  sister  or  two  for  a  half-hour's  dress- 
parade  before  supper  and  his  final  nightly  disappear- 
ance. The  rest  of  the  day  his  family  kept  him  at  arm's 
length  ;  he  was  always  too  wet  to  approach  feminine 
front-breadths.  Mrs.  Hatch  had  been  a  beauty  and  a 
wit.  She  was  no  longer  a  beauty,  except,  indeed,  in 
the  estimation  of  her  husband,  who  thought  her  still 
much  handsomer  than  any  of  her  daughters  ;  but  her 
wit  had  remained,  and  that  certain  Creole  charm  of  a 
rich,  languid  nature  which  Emerson  says  everybody 
loves . 

When  Miss  Hyatt  Titus  was  expected  there  had  been 
a  great  upheaval,  and  Mrs.  Hatch  had  been  immensely 
entertained.  No  royal  infant's  advent  could  have  been 
heralded  by  a  keener  anguish  of  expectant  prophecy. 
There  was  an  early  array  of  physicians  on  hand,  and 
of  anxious  exclamatory  nurses.  There  were  baskets, 
blankets,  sweet-smelling  flannels,  muslins,  laces,  rib- 
bons, and  powder-boxes,  five  cribs  at  least,  and  seven 
rattles.  The  godparents  and  a  clergyman  had  been 
already  secured  for  the  christening.  If  Mr.  Hyatt  Titus 
so  much  as  looked  in  at  the  nursery  door  he  was 
dragged  out  by  an  array  of  unknown  females  who  in- 


24  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

vaded  his  house  and  tramped  about  it  for  months  be- 
forehand. When  the  great  day  came  it  was  met  ex- 
actly as  it  should  have  been.  The  baby  arrived  at  its 
appointed  hour,  and  everything  was  ready  and  had 
been  ready  a  thousand  times  over. 

Mrs.  Titus  had  married  somewhat  late,  when  marriage 
comes  to  be  looked  upon  by  a  woman  as  a  blessing,  not 
as  a  mere  accident  of  fortune.  She  was  just  beginning 
to  be  worried.  She  had  been  well  brought  up  ;  she  be- 
lieved that  motherhood  and  wifehood  were  a  woman's 
province  and  sphere.  She  had  not  married  in  her  first 
youth,  I  say,  and  therefore,  as  is  the  case  with  spinsters 
of  a  certain  maturity,  looked  upon  matrimony  as  a 
career,  not  as  an  estate.  We  view  with  peculiar  solem- 
nity what  has  not  happened  to  us. 

Mrs.  Hatch,  on  the  contrary,  had  danced  up  to  the 
altar  at  seventeen,  without  much  thought  or  care  on 
the  subject ;  simply  pleased  to  have  a  handsome  fellow 
by  her  side  and  her  first  train  two  yards  long  at  her 
heels.  When  the  first  little  Hatch  came  it  was  entirely 
unexpected,  and  nothing  was  prepared.  It  was  pinned, 
however,  into  one  of  its  mother's  flannel  petticoats,  and 
passed  its  first  night  on  a  book-case,  propped  up  by 
' '  The  Descent  of  Man. ' '  It  rolled  off  the  book-case 
in  the  morning,  and  was  then  picked  up  and  put  away 
more  safely  in  an  arm-chair  until  a  suitable  receptacle 
could  be  contrived. 

The  rapidly-sequent  little  Hatches  of  course  inherited 
the  lately-provided  layette  of  number  one,  which  re- 
mained conveniently  at  hand,  and,  it  must  be  confessed, 
was  in  constant  use  for  the  first  fifteeen  years  of  Mrs. 
Hatch's  married  existence.  But  Mrs.  Hatch  herself 
felt  about  as  much  the  importance  and  responsibility  of 
motherhood  as  did  the  pretty  pink-and-white  lady 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  25 

rabbit  which  reared  its  offspring  under  the  garden  wall. 
The  family  grew  and  flourished  notwithstanding,  and 
though  the  children  were  not  brought  up  like  their  little 
cousin  across  the  lake,  they  managed  somehow  to  tum- 
ble up  and  survive.  The  girls  were  all  good-looking, 
and  some  of  them  were  very  beautiful.  They  were  all 
bright,  and  some  of  them  were  clever  ;  and  the  boy 
Crummy — his  name  was  Cecil  Cuthbert  Crumbar  Cad- 
walader — was  the  idol  of  the  house  of  Hatch,  and  de- 
clared by  each  and  all  of  his  sisters  to  be  possessed  of 
incipient  genius.  His  mother  had  fewer  illusions  about 
him.  She  was  one  of  those  delightful  persons  who  are 
inclined  to  think  their  swans  are  geese,  and  to  laugh  at 
them. 

Mr.  Hatch  p%re  was  considered  a  brilliant  man.  He 
was  something  of  a  poet,  an  artist,  and  a  philosopher. 
He  was,  moreover,  uncommonly  handsome  ;  had  large, 
dreamful  eyes,  distinguished  manners,  and  an  elegant 
address  ;  a  man  of  parts,  a  man  of  thought,  an  accom- 
plished gentleman,  a  charming  conversationalist.  He 
had  ornamented  his  own  mind.  In  so  far  he  was  a 
success.  But  .  .  .  he  had  never  been  able  to  earn  any 
money.  His  talents,  such  as  they  were,  remained  fal- 
low and  unproductive  in  the  ducat  line,  so  that  every- 
body shook  their  heads  and  said  that  he  was  a  failure. 
Fortunately,  he  and  his  wife  each  had  a  small  income 
to  depend  upon,  else  they  and  the  nine  little  Hatches 
would  undoubtedly  have  starved.  He  had  been  min- 
ister abroad,  and  had  once  been  in  Congress,  but  these 
things  had  led  to  nothing  in  particular,  and  the  only 
book  of  poems  he  had  published  had  had  a  literary  but 
no  general  success.  His  cousin,  Mr.  Hyatt  Titus,  on  the 
other  hand,  who  had  religiously  abstained  from  politics, 
diplomacy,  and  literature,  and  who  was  short  and  plain 
»  3 


26  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

and  somewhat  taciturn,  had  amassed  a  large  fortune. 
He  had  not  been  to  college,  and  at  school  had  been 
called  a  dunce  ;  but  he  was  in  reality  very  able.  As  he 
grew  to  man's  estate  he  even  became  well-informed. 
When  he  built  himself  a  house  he  taught  himself  the 
sizes  and  uses  of  girders,  rafters,  and  supports,  the 
quality  of  brick,  the  density  of  mortar.  When  he  set- 
tled in  the  country  he  studied  farming,  and  to  some 
available  purpose.  The  varieties  of  soils  were  his  de- 
light ;  fertilizers  filled  his  horizons.  When  he  turned 
his  mind  to  poultry  his  prowess  was  extraordinary.  His 
fat  pullets  took  first  prizes  at  all  the  county  fairs.  He 
had  a  turn  for  natural  history,  and  studied  the  legs  and 
horns  of  caterpillars  for  recreation,  instead  of  writing 
roundelays  like  the  dreamy  poet  across  the  water  who 
knew  everything  except  the  useful.  Mr.  Hyatt  Titus 
entertained  a  secret  contempt  for  his  cousin  Mr.  Hatch, 
although  he  admitted  he  was  an  agreeable  fellow  to 
meet.  But  Mr.  Hatch  looked  upon  Mr.  Hyatt  Titus  as 
upon  a  bundle  of  wisdom,  secretly  deploring  what  he 
called  his  own  ' '  limitations. ' ' 

The  Hatches'  house  was  situated  on  the  very  edge  of 
the  lake,  and  their  tiny  sail-boat  was  moored  at  the 
front  door.  There  was  another  entrance,  of  course,  at 
the  back,  where  carriages  could  drive  up.  On  summer 
afternoons  there  generally  hung  a  Miss  Hatch  out  of 
every  window,  drying  her  hair  after  the  salt  bath.  They 
had  hair  of  every  imaginable  length  and  color.  When 
visitors  came  the  little  ones  and  the  older  ones  cried  out 
"  Halloo  !"  and  parleyed  hospitably  with  the  incoming 
guests.  The  middle  ones,  such  as  ranged  from  twelve 
to  sixteen,  were  shy,  and  drew  in  their  heads,  giggling. 

Mrs.  Hyatt  Titus  deprecated  this  deplorable  lack  of 
dignity.  She  always  called  Mrs.  Hatch  "  Poor  Mary," 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  2^ 

but  why,  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  say,  for  poor 
Mary  was  quite  contented  with  her  eight  harum-scarum 
girls,  her  little  Crummy,  and  her  poet  husband,  im- 
practicable as  he  might  be.  Mr.  Hatch's  affairs  being 
always  in  an  unsatisfactory  condition,  he  had  plenty  of 
time  to  devote  to  his  daughters,  and  he  took  a  deep 
interest  in  their  education.  They  studied  the  classics 
with  him.  He  taught  them  the  languages,  in  which  he 
was  an  adept,  and  he  liked  to  see  them  dance  and  to 
hear  them  sing.  They  were  very  well  educated  young 
women,  not  having  been  repressed  by  the  narrow  influ- 
ence of  governesses  and  tutors.  Two  or  three  of  them 
were  excellent  musicians.  But  it  was  all  a  matter  of 
course  ;  there  was  no  to-do  about  it.  Where  there  are 
so  many  there  is  no  time  for  self-glorification,  and  all 
these  merits  grow  indistinct  in  the  general  struggle  for 
life.  Miss  Highty  Tighty's  feeble  accomplishments 
were  autre  chose. 

Mr.  Hatch's  house  was  old  and  rather  shabby  in  the 
matter  of  paint  and  of  modern  improvements,  but  pic- 
turesque and  pleasant  enough  ;  it  was  not  in  very  good 
repair  or  order,  yet  not  altogether  untidy.  The  library 
was  cheery  and  commodious,  and  filled  with  clever  and 
serious  books,  and  it  was  always  swept  and  dusted  .  .  . 
once  a  week.  The  piazza  was  vine-covered  and  de- 
lightfully cool.  Here  Master  Wace,  the  cat,  and  Laya- 
mon,  the  dog,  with  his  wife  Berenice,  sunned  them- 
selves half  the  day  beneath  the  cyclamens  ;  here  the  old 
pet  bird,  Genseric,  who  had  the  asthma,  swung  in  his 
cage  and  sang  a  husky  ditty  ;  and  here  Mrs.  Hatch  lay 
in  the  hammock  with  a  bit  of  white  lace  on  her  auburn 
hair,  reading.  She  read  very  wise  books,  and  she  had 
wise  and  amusing  things  to  say  of  them  at  dinner  to  her 
husband.  And  the  children  climbed  the  trees  or  rested 


28  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

in  their  shadows,  sailed  the  boat,  swam,  dived,  ate  jelly- 
cake,  and  devoured  unripe  fruit ;  had  eight  little  stom- 
ach-aches and  nine  little  colds,  as  the  case  might  be, 
and  their  mother  smiled  and  said,  ' '  Dear  me  !' '  and 
was  placid  and  adored.  Over  in  the  big  house  across 
the  water  Mrs.  Hyatt  Titus  was  out  of  breath  at  all 
moments,  and  all  worn  out  every  day  running  after  and 
dressing  and  combing  and  purring  over  her  one  little 
duck  that  she  thought  the  most  marvellous  of  snow- 
white  swans. 

I  have  said  there  was  another  house  on  the  lake,  and 
this  was  the  Club.  It  was  a  hideous  white  structure 
with  green  shutters,  hoisted  up  on  high  foundations 
upon  a  white  stretch  of  sand.  It  was  surrounded  by 
slender  pine-trees.  It  had  a  flat  roof,  and  no  piazzas, 
and  only  a  wooden  porte-cochere  under  which  carriages 
drove.  Some  young  men  of  fashion  had  a  lien  on  the 
creek,  where  they  played  at  fishing  in  the  autumn,  and 
they  imagined  that  there  was  good  shooting  in  the 
woods  in  the  neighborhood.  The  fishing  and  shooting 
were,  in  fact,  indifferent,  but  it  was  a  nice  place  for  a 
"day  off."  There  was  fine  sailing  on  the  Sound,  and 
plenty  of  good  wine  in  the  cellar.  All  through  the 
summer  parties  of  these  gentlemen  came  up  and  down 
and  had  a  nice  time  of  it  eating,  drinking,  and  making 
merry  with  cards,  truffles,  and  champagne.  And  they 
walked,  and  rode,  and  pulled  their  boats,  and  some- 
times managed  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  Misses  Hatch 
hanging  out  between  their  window-shutters.  Such  as 
were  acquaintances  were  invited  to  come  in.  Tea  would 
be  improvised  under  the  maples,  and  what  mattered  an 
earwig  or  two  in  the  cream  where  there  were  such  a  lot 
of  jolly  girls  ?  Even  the  mother  and  father  were  enter- 
taining. Sans  g£ne  was  the  motto,  and  that  is  what 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  29 

men  like  best.     It  is  probably  the  secret  of  most  mis- 
alliances. 

There  was  another  abode  near  the  lake,  but  not  upon 
it.  About  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away  there  lived  a  young 
orphan  millionaire  with  his  two  maiden  aunts.  He  had 
been  a  rather  weak  child,  and  so  had  not  been  sent  to 
college.  His  mind,  which  was  not  over-brilliant,  was, 
therefore,  not  very  well  stored  with  knowledge.  But 
he  had  good  horses  and  rode  them  pluckily,  and  he 
could  sail  a  boat,  and  was  a  pretty  youth.  He  was 
considered  a  desirable  match  by  the  mammas  of  the 
neighborhood.  Once  Mrs.  Hyatt  Titus — only  once — 
had  whispered  to  her  spouse  in  the  curtained  sanctities 
of  the  nuptial  chamber  that  if  Providence  should  so 
arrange  it — if  the  young  people  should  fancy  each  other, 
perhaps,  nay,  who  knew?  stranger  things  had  happened. 
Their  Violet  was  very  lovely.  Willie  Truden  had 
probably  remarked  it. 

Mr.  Hyatt  Titus  took  little  interest  in  such  matters  ; 
American  fathers  rarely  do.  But  if  his  daughter  were 
to  leave  him  at  all  I  suppose  he  thought  that  Willie  and 
his  millions  might  suffice. 

That  very  day  Violet  Hyatt  Titus  and  Mr.  Truden 
had  sat  for  an  hour  together  on  the  sea  wall,  and  it  had 
entered  into  this  demure  maiden's  breast  to  wonder  if 
he  would  "do."  She  had  a  keen  appreciation  of  the 
value  of  money.  Her  mother  would  have  called  it  a 
love  of  the  beautiful.  She  also  had  a  keen  appreciation 
of  the  pleasure  of  ruling  others,  and  Willie  could  easily, 
she  decided,  be  ground  to  powder  and  taught  to  obey. 
She  talked  to  him  all  the  time  about  herself  and  her 
projects  and  desires,  and  he  listened  with  his  legs  hang- 
ing over  the  crumbling  stones,  now  and  then  killing  a 
mosquito  that  lit  on  his  nose. 

3* 


30  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

" Can  you  not  stop  to  dine?"  asked  the  maiden. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Truden  :  "I  promised  to  pass  the 
evening  at  the  Hatches' . ' ' 

A  look  of  deep  commiseration  passed  over  the  girl's 
sweet  face. 

"They  invited  me,"  she  said,  "but  really  mamma 
never  liked  me  to  associate  with  them  much  when  I 
was  little,  and  now,  as  you  can  imagine,  they  are  very 
...  er  ...  uncongenial." 

"They're  fun,"  said  Willie,  laconically. 

His  companion  turned  and  looked  at  him.  "And 
who  would  wish  to  be  fun  ?' '  said  she. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Willie. 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him,  as  I  say,  and  won- 
dered for  a  moment  if  he  might  prove  testy  after  all. 
Would  he  be  uneasy  under  the  crushing  and  mangling 
and  ordering  about  to  which  her  papa  and  mamma 
submitted  ?  If  there  was  anything  she  disliked,  it  was 
obstacular  people.  She  expected  everybody  to  agree 
with  her. 

"  Of  course  I  feel  for  the  poor  things,"  she  sighed. 
"I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what's  going  to  become  of 
them." 

She  had  often  heard  her  mother  make  this  remark 
with  a  wagging  head. 

' '  They  seem  to  be  going  along, ' '  said  Willie. 

As  he  crossed  the  lawn  the  lady  of  the  manor  darted 
out  at  him  from  a  lilac-bush.  "Stay  and  dine,"  she 
said,  affably. 

"Awfully  sorry— can't,"  said  Willie. 

Mr.  Highty  Tighty  was  hunting  caterpillars  in  the 
trees.  When  not  in  town  pinned  to  his  desk  he  devoted 
himself  to  this  pastime.  He  looked  up  and  repeated 
his  wife's  invitation  with  more  cordiality  than  usual. 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  31 

He  preferred  caterpillars  to  young  men,  not  being  of  a 
genial  nature.  But  Willie  was  the  son  of  an  old  friend, 
and  as  such  might  be  tolerated. 

Willie,  however,  trudged  off  firmly,  declining. 

"She's  got  jolly  eyes,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  It's  a 
pity  she's  so  infernally  ..."  But  he  did  not  conclude 
the  sentence. 

II. 

THE  Hatch  sail-boat,  which  was  called  the 
"Lakshmi,"  and  was  painted  dark  blue,  being  the 
presupposed  color  of  this  goddess  of  beauty,  grace, 
riches,  and  pleasure,  came  bowling  across  the  lake  in 
the  penumbra  of  a  gray  twilight.  She  made  an  odd 
seething  sound  as  she  swung  through  the  high  grasses 
or  rocked  and  wavered  with  her  keel  half  caught  amid 
the  floating  water-lichens.  The  lake  was  still  and 
smooth  as  a  cloth  of  gray  satin  upon  which  one  might 
have  skated ;  here  and  there  a  pale  rose  shading  on  a 
white  and  green  reflection.  There  was  something  un- 
decided about  the  evening.  Its  sigh  seemed  to  portend 
a  change  for  the  weary,  to  hold  a  whisper  of  impending 
tumult,  possibly  of  awakening  storm,  for  the  restless. 
Who  knew?  perhaps  after  all  the  cloud  would  scatter 
and  pass  to  welcome  the  rising  of  a  shimmering  moon. 

The  sand  beaches,  hyaline,  crystalline,  lay  mysterious 
in  the  dumb  gloaming,  with  glintings  here  and  there 
as  of  emeralds.  Now  and  then  a  sharp  gust  brushed  a 
wave  which  rose  and  trembled  upward  in  a  brisk  swell- 
ing, its  dark  back  and  foaming  mouth  resembling  some 
feline  creature  at  bay.  Across  the  sands,  far,  far  away, 
gleamed  the  pale,  phosphorescent  stretches  of  an 
anxious  sea. 

It  had  showered  earlier,  and  the  woods  had  been 


32  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

half  drowned  in  the  violent  summer  flood.  The  trees 
were  still  bent  under  the  weight  of  their  wetting,  and 
sent  out  fine,  keen  odors  of  resin  and  maple  juices, 
which  mingled  with  the  nearer  pungent  smells  of  the 
marine  algae. 

Across  the  sleepy  waters  breathed  suddenly  that 
essence  of  quivering  life,  that  instinct  of  vitality,  which 
was  sure  to  agitate  anything  and  everything  possessed 
by  a  member  of  the  Hatch  family.  The  Lakshmi  flew 
to  meet  the  advancing  night,  catching  each  flaw  and 
puff",  Muriel  at  the  tiller,  Audrey  at  the  mainsheet,  and 
a  very  big  fish  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat. 

' '  Halloo  ?  look  out  for  your  heads, ' '  cried  Audrey. 

"  Ready  about !  Port  your  helm,"  called  out  Muriel, 
and  whack  !  went  the  low  flying  boom,  grazing  the 
forehead  of  the  frightened  fish. 

It  was  indeed  a  very  big  fish  these  young  girls  had 
captured  that  afternoon,  as  well  as  a  much  frightened 
one.  He  lay  now  on  his  stomach  in  the  bottom  of  the 
cockpit,  wallowing,  with  one  eye  on  the  horizon  and 
one  broad  hand  on  the  side  of  the  tiny  craft.  His  name 
was  Victor  Arthur  Lucan  Humphrey  George  Draco, 
Earl  of  Brownlow.  He  was  stopping  at  the  club-house 
with  some  American  fellows  whom  he  had  met  the 
year  before  while  elephant-hunting  in  India ,  and  he 
had  gone  over  with  them  to  call  and  be  duly  presented 
to  the  Hatches  that  afternoon.  The  others  had  walked 
or  ridden  home,  and  the  girls  had  volunteered  to  sail 
him  back  as  far  as  the  club-house  door. 

He  was  young  and  big  and  red.  He  was  also  ex- 
tremely shy.  He  had  immense  hands  and  yet  larger 
feet.  His  mouth  was  always  open,  displaying  his  front 
teeth  and  a  part  of  his  gums.  His  teeth  were  extremely 
clean,  and  his  gums  were  fresh  and  healthy.  He  had 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  33 

a  heavy  jowl,  a  drooping  eye,  and  a  gentle,  affectionate 
disposition. 

The  Misses  Hatch  had  been  caught  as  usual  by  their 
visitors  just  ascending  from  their  bath.  They  were 
arrayed  in  rather  tumbled  cotton  gowns,  while  their 
locks  escaped  in  little  damp  rings  about  their  foreheads 
and  ears  from  under  their  blue  Tarn  o'  Shanters. 

Muriel  was  a  lovely  brown  creature  with  blue  eyes. 
Her  hands  and  throat  were  tanned.  Audrey  was  less 
beautiful,  fairer,  and  extremely  graceful.  She  looked 
"chic"  even  in  her  night-gown — or  at  least  this  was 
the  family  tradition. 

"  I  say,"  said  the  earl,  "that's  a  nasty  wind." 

"Aren't  you  in  the  habit  of  boating?"  asked 
Audrey,  letting  out  the  mainsheet. 

' '  Not  in  anything  so  little, ' '  said  the  earl.  ' '  My 
father  owned  the  Vanquisher.  She's  under  repairs 
now,  but  I'll  have  her  on  the  Mediterranean  next 
spring." 

"  She's  like  an  ocean  steamer,  isn't  she  ?"  said  Muriel. 
"  Don't  come  up,  please.  We're  going  to  jibe." 

The  earl,  with  a  moan,  prostrated  himself  again,  and 
lay  quite  still. 

"Aren't  we  nearly  there  ?"  he  asked  after  a  while. 

"You  see,"  said  Audrey,  "the  wind's  skittish.  I 
think  it  is  dying  out.  If  it  does  we'll  just  run  you  in 
at  the  light-house,  and  Jim,  the  keeper,  '11  row  you 
ashore  ?' ' 

' '  What  will  you  do  ?' '  asked  the  young  Englishman, 
turning  over  suddenly  on  his  back. 

"Oh,  we'll  swim  back,"  said  Muriel,  a  little  con- 
temptuously. ' '  We'  re  used  to  the  lake. — Ready  about, 
Audrey,  and  don't  be  such  a  poke." 

As  they  neared  the  light-house,  a  solemn  stone  struc- 


34  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

ture  which  loomed  up  on  the  borders  of  the  sand-spit,  a 
boat  darted  from  under  its  flight  of  steps,  and  in  the 
boat  sat  Miss  Highty  Tighty,  charmingly  attired  in 
pallid  gauze  with  puffed  sleeves,  and  an  aesthetic  hat 
poised  upon  her  head,  a  gold  girdle  about  her  hips,  the 
oars  in  her  hands,  and  an  open  book  upon  her  lap. 

She  had  timed  the  whole  thing  admirably.  She  had 
seen  the  Lakshmi  and  its  occupants  from  afar.  She 
had  seen  the  big  fish  in  one  of  his  frenzied  leaps  from 
side  to  side,  and,  recognizing  that  it  was  a  male  fish, 
had  concluded  that  it  was  worth  angling  for.  She  had 
not  yet  entirely  decided  that  Willie  Truden  would 
"  do,"  and  in  the  mean  while  .  .  . 

"What  a  darling  girl !"  said  the  earl,  with  one  eye 
to  leeward.  ' '  Introduce  me  !' ' 

The  Hatch  ladies  looked  at  each  other  and  smiled 
significantly. 

"Why,  certainly,"  they  said. 

"She's  reading.  She  doesn't  see  us,"  said  the 
simple,  naif  Briton,  much  interested. 

Muriel  and  Audrey  again  exchanged  masonic  glances, 
but  said  nothing.  The  Lakshmi  veered  and  grazed  the 
reader's  light  bows. 

"  Oh  !  how  do  you  do,  mes  cheres  cousines  ?"  And 
Miss  Highty  Tighty  looked  up  duly  astonished. 

' '  Thanks.  We  can  just  sit  up  and  take  a  little 
nourishment,"  said  Muriel. 

"Let  me  introduce  the  Earl  of  Brownlow,"  said 
Audrey,  majestically,  settling  her  Tarn  o'  Shanter  with 
one  hand  and  clutching  the  rope  with  the  other.  She 
let  the  wind  spill  out  of  the  sail,  so  that  the  boats  lay 
lazily  swinging  in  the  tide  swell  side  by  side. 

Miss  H.  T.  pouted  with  haughty  unconcern,  but  con- 
descendingly kept  close  to  her  cousin's  prow. 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  35 

"Look  here,"  said  Audrey.  "  Couldn't  you  row 
him  ashore?"  and  she  indicated  their  captive  with  a 
knot  of  the  mainsheet  held  in  her  hand.  "It's  only  a 
quarter  of  a  mile,  and  we're  stuck.  I'm  going  to  get 
Jim  to  give  us  a  tow." 

Miss  Highty  Tighty's  heart  leaped  for  joy.  Her 
life  had  been  a  pretty  dull  one  so  far.  But  she  only 
said, — 

"  Oh,  but  is  it  permissible?" 

"All  right,"  said  Audrey,  shortly.  "Jim  can  take 
us  all,  then." 

' '  I  say, ' '  said  the  earl,  ' '  do  row  me  home,  now, 
won't  you?" 

"If  you  insist,"  said  Miss  Highty  Tighty,  "I  am 
defenceless. ' ' 

So  the  big  male  fish  was  deposited  within  a  few  feet 
of  the  fair  oarswoman. 

"  What  book  are  you  perusing,  ma  cousine  ?"  called 
Muriel  saucily  after  them,  imitating  her  cousin's  accent. 
But  the  answer  was  swallowed  on  a  recurring  wave. 

' '  Why  do  you  ask  her  ?' '  said  her  sister,  laughing. 
"  Shall  you  read  it  too  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  want  to  avoid  it." 

"Shan't  I  pull  you?"  said  the  earl. 

"Oh,  no;  I  prefer  to  manage  my  boat  myself," 
answered  his  fair  captain,  whose  life-principle  was  here 
enunciated. 

"You  were  reading,"  said  the  earl,  with  timidity, 
very  red  with  the  exertion  of  the  transfer. 

"  I  live  in  my  books,"  said  Miss  Violet. 

"  Dear  me  !"  said  the  earl.  He  picked  up  the  vol- 
ume, which  proved  to  be  the  correspondence  of  Carlyle 
and  Emerson. 

"Which  of  the  two  men — writers,  I  mean — do  you 


36  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

prefer?"  asked  Miss  Highly  Tighty,  taking  long  but 
very  slow  strokes  :  she  had  herself  not  read  a  line  of  the 
letters. 

Not  knowing  exactly  what  reply  to  make,  the  earl 
screwed  up  his  lips,  fanned  himself  with  the  fluttering 
book,  and  contented  himself  with — 

"He  was  a  queer  duffer." 

"Duffer?" 

"Yes.     Isn't  that  good  English  ?"  asked  the  earl. 

" It  may  be,"  said  Miss  H.  T.,  "but  the  expression 
is  hardly  adequate. ' ' 

"  Oh  !  I  say,"  said  the  earl,  "you're  trying  to  get  a 
rise  on  me." 

Miss  Hyatt  Titus  opened  her  eyes  widely.  The  earl, 
like  Willie  Truden,  thought  them  rather  nice. 

' '  But  which  do  you  consider  to  be  the  ...  er  ... 
duffer  ?' '  she  inquired,  with  an  arched  eyebrow. 

"  Oh,  Carlyle,  of  course.  I  don't  know  much  about 
the  other  fellow.  Who  was  he,  anyhow?" 

"  What !  You  never  read  any  of  Emerson's  essays 
and  poems  ?' '  cried  Miss  Hyatt  Titus.  ' '  Why,  where 
have  you  lived  ?' ' 

"At  our  place  in  Devon  most  of  the  year,"  said  the 
earl,  humbly,  "  or  in  London  when  I  run  up,  except  at 
deer-stalking,  you  know,  when  we  go  north." 

' '  And  you  never  heard  of  Emerson  ?' ' 

"Oh,  I  may  have  heard  his  name,"  said  the  earl, 
who  was  terribly  truthful.  "  But  I'm  not  going  to  put 
on  side  with  you,  you  know.  I'm  not  literary." 

"  What  do  you  like?"  asked  Miss  Hyatt  Titus. 

"  I  ...  I  like  being  rowed  by  a  pretty  girl, ' '  said 
his  lordship,  gallantly,  and  blushing  furiously. 

"The  Hatches  will  row  you  daily,  I  don't  doubt. 
They're  always  paddling  about." 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  37 

"I  think  they're  awfully  handsome,  and  clever. 
They're  cousins  of  yours,  aren't  they?" 

"Yes,  .  .  .  distant." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  earl ;  and  then  the  boat  scraped  the 
bottom,  the  farewells  were  spoken,  and  the  thanks  ex- 
pressed. 

' '  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  introduce  you  to  my 
parents,"  said  Miss  Hyatt  Titus,  with  much  propriety, 
shoving  off. 

"Thanks,  awfully,"  said  the  earl. 

As  he  scrambled  up  to  the  Club  through  the  pines 
he  said,  half  aloud, — 

"She's  got  nice  sort  of  eyes  and  a  pretty  mouth  ; 
but  I  think  the  Hatch  girls  are  nicer.  That  Muriel's 
a  splendid  woman.  She's  so  alive  and  so  unpretending. 
This  little  cousin  .  .  .  ' 

But  the  wind  carried  away  his  criticism. 

Miss  Highty  Tighty  told  her  father  and  mother  of 
her  encounter  and  her  row.  She  spoke  with  some 
emphasis. 

"I  wonder  why  it  is,"  she  said,  "that  it  is  always 
the  Hatch  girls  who  introduce  everybody  to  us.  It 
seems  to  me,  with  our  advantages,  it  ought  to  be  the 
other  way." 

"Hoydens  can  always  pick  up  young  men,"  said 
Mrs.  Hyatt  Titus,  "and  I  don't  much  like  what  you 
tell  me.  In  my  day  .  .  .  ' 

"Your  day  isn't  this,"  replied  her  daughter,  with 
considerable  asperity  and  a  heightened  color,  "and  I'm 
sick  of  being  cooped  up." 

Her  father  and  mother  looked  at  each  other  across 
their  snowy  table-linen.  Her  mother  was  a  well-born, 
well-bred,  well-read  woman.  She  had,  to  be  sure, 
rather  abjured  reading.  How  can  a  wife  and  mother 

4 


38  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

read,  unless,  indeed,  she  be,  like  "poor  Mary," 
neglectful  of  these  sacred,  these  hallowed  trusts  ?  She 
was  one  of  those  women  who  had  always  been  a  model ; 
every  one  had  approved  of  her  ;  yet  now  her  only  duck- 
ling seemed  inclined  to  question  her  absolute  wisdom. 
It  was  preposterous,  extraordinary  !  She  could  not 
understand. 

"My  little  girl,"  she  said,  "isn't  everything  done 
for  you  ?' ' 

"Nothing's  done  for  me,"  said  the  little  girl.  "I 
have  been  educated  to  death.  But  I  am  not  half  as 
amusing  as  the  Hatch  girls,  after  all." 

"Your  cousins,"  said  Mr.  Hyatt  Titus,  with  assumed 
severity,  ' '  are  poor  patterns  for  you,  my  child.  Look 
at  your  mother." 

Violet  looked  at  her  mother.  She  saw  a  middle-aged 
lady  in  a  prim  gray  silk  ;  Mrs.  Hyatt  Titus  belonged  to 
that  type  which  is  always  middle-aged.  She  therefore 
saw,  I  say,  this  middle-aged  person,  with  some  lace 
fastened  at  her  neck  by  a  brooch, — a  likeness  of  her 
daughter  in  babyhood,  set  in  pearls, — smooth,  brown 
hair,  coiled  at  the  back,  a  pair  of  somewhat  pursed-up 
lips,  and  two  faded  blue  eyes.  The  contemplation 
awoke  no  answering  thrill.  She  shrugged  her  shoulders 
impatiently. 

"I  want  to  come  out  next  winter,  in  town,"  she 
said,  after  a  pause. 

"  I  dare  say  your  papa  will  take  you  out,"  said  her 
mother. 

"Cousin  Mary  Hatch  says  nobody  can  bring  a  girl 
out  but  her  mother.' ' 

' '  I  am  afraid  I  should  feel  very  strangely  in  a  ball- 
room," said  Mrs.  Hyatt  Titus.  "  I  have  always  shrunk 
from  the  frivolous  atmosphere  of  society.  I  should  be 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  39 

very  sorry  to  have  my  daughter  a  mere  woman  of 
fashion." 

"Well,  there's  not  much  danger,"  said  Miss  Hyatt 
Titus,  tossing  her  head,  "  if  we  keep  on  this  way." 

"I  think,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Hyatt  Titus,  "that 
our  little  girl  is  right.  You  must  exert  yourself  more 
for  her." 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ?"  Mrs.  Hyatt  Titus  now  wrung 
her  hands.  The  tears  were  almost  in  her  eyes.  Was 
her  husband,  too,  going  to  find  fault  with  her  ? 

"  You  had  better  go  and  pay  some  visits  to-morrow, 
mamma  dear.  The  Club's  full  of  ladies.  They've 
passed  a  rule  to  have  women  there  during  the  months 
of  August  and  September.  Lawrence  Larremore 
brought  up  his  wife  last  night.  She's  a  very  gay  lady. 
You  visit  all  her  family  in  town.  You'd  better  leave  a 
card  on  her ;  and  why  not  give  a  dinner  ?' '  After  a 
while  he  added,  tentatively,  looking  at  his  daughter 
with  a  smile,  "We  might  ask  this  English  gentle- 
man." 

"I've  been  thinking  of  a  dinner,"  said  Mrs.  Titus. 

III. 

OVER  her  black  lace  gown  Mrs.  Hyatt  Titus  donned 
a  long  gray  silk  cloak,  and  pinned  a  gray  veil  to  her 
bonnet,  because  the  roads  were  dusty  and  she  was  going 
visiting,  and  she  hated  dust.  She  decided  to  stop  at 
the  Club  first  and  then  drop  in  at  the  Hatches'  before 
she  paid  two  or  three  other  ceremonial  calls.  She  de- 
scended from  her  victoria,  making  a  modest  display  of 
pearl-colored  silk  hose  and  of  a  chaste  black  shoe. 
She  asked  for  Mrs.  Larremore,  and  was  told  by  the 
servant  that  Mrs.  Larremore  was  at  home. 


4°  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

She  had  begged  her  daughter  to  accompany  her  upon 
this  pilgrimage,  but  the  young  lady  had  been  rather 
out  of  sorts  and  had  snappishly  answered  that  she  had 
other  engagements.  She  had,  in  fact,  dressed  herself 
that  afternoon  and  the  two  preceding  ones  with  peculiar 
care,  in  the  expectation  that  the  Earl  of  Brownlow 
would  call,  and  the  fact  that  he  had  not  yet  fulfilled  this 
common  act  of  courtesy  had  awakened  in  her  mind  that 
surprised  and  vague  self-depreciation  which  now  and 
again  came  to  mar  the  perfect  belief  she  had  always 
been  taught  to  have  in  herself.  ' '  Was  it  possible  he 
hadn't  really  admired  her?"  Well,  there  was  always 
Willie  Truden  to  fall  back  upon.  He  could  be  whistled 
up  at  any  time.  But  the  defection  of  the  earl  was 
bitter. 

Mrs.  Hyatt  Titus  was  ushered  through  the  hall  into 
a  wide,  cool  ground-floor  room  paved  with  mosaic  and 
furnished  in  light-yellow  chintz.  There  were  two  ladies 
in  the  room  and  six  gentlemen.  The  ladies  were  Muriel 
Hatch  and  Mrs.  Larremore.  The  former  sat  near  an 
open  window  which  overlooked  the  lake.  By  her  side 
perched  Willie  Truden,  and  crouching  at  her  feet  on  a 
low  stool  the  Earl  of  Brownlow. 

"How  are  you,  Muriel?"  said  Mrs.  Hyatt  Titus, 
patronizingly,  nodding  to  Miss  Hatch. 

"Brownie,"  said  Mrs.  Larremore  to  the  earl,  "fetch 
a  chair  for  this  lady." 

"Brownie,"  thus  admonished,  rose,  shook  himself, 
and  brought  a  chair.  Mrs.  Hyatt  Titus  sat  upon  its 
edge,  threw  back  her  cloak,  and  unfastened  her  veil. 

"It's  very  dusty,"  she  said. 

"Is  it?"  said  Mrs.  Larremore.  "I  haven't  stirred 
out  from  under  these  pines  since  I  arrived." 

Then  she  introduced  the  young  Englishman. 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  41 

"  I  think  I  know  your  daughter,"  he  said,  awkwardly. 

"  Yes  ;  she  told  me  how  she  had  rescued  you  from 
the  perils  of  our  lake,"  smiling. 

Then  there  was  a  dreadful  pause.  Mrs.  Larremore 
came  to  the  rescue.  "  I  am  so  sorry  you  didn't  bring 
your  daughter  to  see  me.  I  hear  she's  so  pretty.  Is 
she  in  society  yet  ?' ' 

"She's  eighteen." 

"  I  mean  shall  you  launch  her  next  winter?" 

"I  dislike  the  word,"  said  Mrs.  Hyatt  Titus.  "I 
am  rather  afraid  of  society.  I  think  it  pernicious." 

"Ah,  well,"  said  Mrs.  Larremore,  "how  ever  are 
the  girls  to  get  husbands,  then?  How  can  the  men 
see  them  if  they  don't  go  out?" 

' '  Surely,  Mrs.  Larremore,  you  would  not  have  a  girl 
go  out  looking  for  a  husband  ?' ' 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  Ah  !  here  comes  tea.  Will 
you  have  cream  ?  Yes  ?  And  sugar  ?  Here,  Brownie, 
give  me  the  sugar-tongs.  I  think  they  might  be  doing 
worse  things.  Quiet  girls  nowadays  don't  seem  to 
have  any  chance.  It's  the  frivolous  ones  who  make  the 
good  matches." 

"I  hope  to  keep  my  daughter,"  said  Mrs.  Hyatt 
Titus,  with  dignity,  "as  long  as  possible." 

' '  I  am  sure  she  has  only  to  show  herself  to  be  a  suc- 
cess," said  Mrs.  Larremore. 

"  She's  a  lovely  girl,"  said  the  mother  ;  "  or  at  least 
we  think  so." 

"She  must  come  and  see  me,"  said  Mrs.  Larremore. 

She  leaned  over  as  she  spoke  and  reached  towards  a 
rose-colored  silk  pouch  or  bag  which  lay  near  by,  and 
which  she  drew  towards  her.  It  was  filled  with  tobacco- 
leaf.  By  its  side  lay  a  lot  of  transparent  leaves  of  rice- 
paper.  Deftly  with  her  long,  jewelled  fingers  she  began 


42  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

to  fill  these  with  the  herb,  and  then  twisted  them  with 
a  charming  jerk  into  little  rolls.  She  blew  upon  the 
folded  edges,  gave  them  a  final  pat,  and,  as  she  com- 
pleted each  cigarette,  with  a  graceful  gesture  she  threw 
them  at  the  different  men  who  were  present,  and  who 
were  drawn  up  about  her  tea-table.  One  cigarette  fell 
and  splashed  into  a  cup,  and  there  was  applause  and 
laughter.  Mrs.  Hyatt  Titus,  still  sitting  on  the  edge  of 
her  chair,  looked  on. 

"  Won't  you  have  a  light?"  asked  one  of  the  young 
men,  a  handsome  fellow  with  thick,  curly  brown  hair. 

"  Thanks,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Larremore,  and  she  began 
to  smoke.  ' '  I  suppose  you  have  not  this  bad  habit  ?' ' 
she  said  to  Mrs.  Hyatt  Titus,  smiling. 

But  Mrs.  Hyatt  Titus  was  voiceless,  and  her  tongue 
felt  parched.  She  could  only  shake  her  head. 

"Take  some  cake,  do,"  said  her  hostess,  passing  the 
plate  towards  her  visitor. 

"Help  yourself  first,  Mrs.  Larremore." 

"  I'm  fat ;  I  can't  eat  sweets.     I'm  banting." 

"  Fat !    Why,  you  look  to  me  unusually  slender." 

"  Oh,  that's  only  the  result  of  force." 

"Force?" 

"Not  my  own  ;  my  maid's,"  said  Mrs.  Larremore, 
laconically.  "  She  pulls  me  in." 

"Are  you  not  afraid  of  injuring  your  health  ?"  asked 
Mrs.  Hyatt  Titus. 

"There  was  a  post-mortem  the  other  day  on  some 
girls,  and  their  ...  er  ...  livers  .  ,  .  and  hearts 
.  .  .  were  quite  out  of  place  ;  on  the  wrong  side  of  'em, 
in  fact,"  said  the  young  gentleman  with  curly  brown 
hair,  "  all  lop-sided. " 

"Heavens!"  said  Mrs.  Larremore.  "I'll  take  a 
reef  out  after  dinner.  You  frighten  me,  Gussie." 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  43 

Mrs.  Hyatt  Titus  blushed. 

" Talking  of  post-mortems,"  continued  Mrs.  Larre- 
more,  leaning  back  and  blowing  rings  of  light  smoke 
from  between  her  pink  gums  and  white  teeth,  "I  see 
the  murdered  man  there's  been  such  a  row  about  was 
cut  open,  and  there  was  a  lot  of  ground  glass  found  in 
his  stomach." 

"The  question  is,"  said  the  curly-headed  youth, 
"who  put  it  there." 

"  It  is  impossible,"  said  Mrs.  Larremore,  "to  always 
fathom  how  these  foreign  substances  get  into  the 
organism,  but  the  lawyers  say,  and  they  think  they 
know  everything,  that  there  is  no  doubt  the  wife  put  it 
there.  Only  fancy  !  A  woman  one  used  to  visit ! 
Isn't  it  quite  horrid  !" 

"The  Times  this  morning,"  said  the  earl,  "has  it 
she  used  to  chuck  his  soup  full  of  it." 

"  At  any  rate,"  said  Mrs.  Larremore,  "it  was  there  : 
that  is  the  important  thing.  And  to  think  that  woman 
went  to  the  bachelors'  ball  !  Of  course  we  really  must 
draw  the  line  somewhere  ;  don't  you  think  so,  Mrs. 
Hyatt  Titus  ?' '  but  this  lady  was  still  dumb. 

She  was  beginning  to  think  that  there  was  a  moral 
and  social  disintegration  in  progress,  of  which  she  did 
not  hold  the  secret,  the  throbbing  of  whose  pulses  she 
had  as  yet  but  feebly  imagined.  She  was  advancing 
haphazard,  without  map  or  charts,  into  new,  untried 
deserts.  Was  her  innocent  child  to  be  hurled  into  their 
unknown  and  arid  quicksands  ? 

Yet,  strangely  enough,  these  people,  this  woman, 
these  men,  who  spoke  so  lightly  of  such  terrible  things, 
had  a  certain  ease  and  poise  about  them  that  made  her 
feel  herself  inferior  to  them,  unimportant,  out  of  place. 
Was  this  always  the  effect,  she  asked  herself,  of  vul- 


44  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

garity  over  refinement  ?  It  was  pleasant  to  reflect  that 
she  would  by  and  by  pay  other  visits  to  other  neigh- 
bors, as  soon  as  she  might  effect  an  escape,  where  the 
tone  was  never  lax  and  her  own  superiority  was  recog- 
nized. 

She  was  rising  to  take  leave,  when,  to  her  amaze- 
ment, her  husband  was  ushered  into  the  Club  drawing- 
room. 

' '  I  saw  your  carriage,  my  dear,  as  I  passed  returning 
from  the  station,"  he  said  to  his  wife,  apologetically, 
' '  and  so  I  came  in  to  pay  my  respects  to  Mrs.  Larre- 
more. — I  have  long  known  your  husband,"  he  added, 
addressing  this  lady. 

They  all  sat  down  once  more.  Mrs.  Larremore 
threw  away  her  cigarette. 

Mr.  Titus  had  a  twig  in  his  hand  upon  which  an 
obese  green  caterpillar  was  disporting  itself.  It  had 
round  eyes  and  a  face  like  a  man. 

' '  This  is  the  Polyphemus.  I  could  not  resist  stopping 
to  pick  it  off  the  tree  as  I  drove  into  the  gate.  It's  a 
fine  specimen." 

"What  an  odd  fellow  he  is!"  said  Mrs.  Larre- 
more ;  ' '  and  how  clever  you  must  be  to  know  all  about 
him  !" 

"  He's  a  duffer,"  said  the  earl. 

Carlyle  and  caterpillars  were  one  to  him. 

The  naturalist  launched  out  into  a  lecture  upon 
butterflies,  moths,  and  insects  in  general,  to  which  Mrs. 
Larremore  listened  luminously,  in  an  absorbed  and 
rapt  attitude. 

' '  You  must  come  again  and  instruct  us.  We  are 
very  dull  about  these  natural  wonders  here.  Would 
that  I  might  sit  at  your  feet !' '  she  said,  and  she  looked 
into  Mr.  Hyatt  Titus' s  fishy  eyes  with  a  tender  beam 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  45 

aslant  her  own  half-shut  lids.     Then  she  turned  and 
addressed  the  young  men  : 

"What  loafers  you  are,  to  be  sure,"  she  said,  "and 
how  ashamed  you  should  be  of  your  ignorance  and 
your  indolence  !  Why  don't  you  go  out  and  look  for 
...  er  ...  caterpillars?" 

"What  a  beautiful  and  charming  person  !"  said  Mr. 
Hyatt  Titus  when  he  was  seated  in  the  carriage  next 
to  his  spouse.  ' '  She  is  really  quite  a  goddess  in  ap- 
pearance." His  wife  looked  at  him  amazed.  She  had 
never  heard  such  a  flight  of  fancy  from  his  lips  before. 

"I  thought  her  extremely  flippant,"  she  answered, 
dryly. 

' '  She  seems  serious  enough, ' '  said  Mr.  Hyatt  Titus, 
' '  and  evinces  an  unusual  interest  in  the  natural  sciences 
for  a  female. ' ' 

"  Before  you  came  in  she  was  quite  flippant,  quite, — 
and  even  worse,"  said  his  wife,  belligerent. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  I'm  afraid  we're  old  fogies."  And 
that  was  all  the  consolation  offered. 

Mrs.  Larremore  and  her  friends  were  laughing 
heartily. 

' '  Poor  little  lady  !  How  she  swallowed  my  story 
about  lacing  !  I  wanted  to  astonish  her,  and  I  think  I 
succeeded.  It  was  very  wicked  of  me.  As  to  that 
nasty  scandal,  it  completely  paralyzed  her.  Well,  it  is 
upsetting.  But  tell  me,  Muriel  dear,  how  ever  are  you 
and  these  prigs  cousins  ?' ' 

The  victoria  rolled  around  the  beach  to  the  Hatches'. 
Mrs.  Hatch  was  sitting  in  the  corner  of  a  low  divan, 
and  Mr.  Hatch  was  lying  upon  it  at  full  length,  with 
his  head  in  his  wife's  lap.  She  was  smoothing  his  hair 
with  her  white  fingers, — that  hair  which  had  once  been 
so  golden  and  was  now  dulling  into  grayness.  Now 


46  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

and  then  he  looked  up  at  her  lovingly,  and  she  re- 
warded him  with  one  of  those  radiant  smiles  in  which 
there  still  lurked  for  him  an  element  of  fascination. 

"  Here  come  the  Highty  Tightys,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  bother!"  said  Mr.  Hatch,  irreverently. 

Then  the  cousins  arrived  and  the  greetings  were  ex- 
changed. 

"We've  just  seen  your  Muriel,"  said  Mrs.  Hyatt 
Titus,  settling  herself. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hatch  looked  at  each  other  and  smiled. 

' '  Yes ;  she  went  over  to  the  Club  to  take  tea  with 
Mrs.  Larremore." 

"A  lovely  woman,"  said  Mr.  Hatch. 

"She's  a  great  success,"  said  Mrs.  Hatch.  "If 
your  girl's  going  out  next  winter  you  ought  to  culti- 
vate her." 

' '  Do  you  ?' '  asked  Mrs.  Hyatt  Titus,  abruptly. 

' '  Why,  Martha,  how  can  we  cultivate  any  one  ?  We 
don't  attempt  much  gaiety  for  the  children.  There  are 
too  many  of  them.  You  know  we  leave  them  here 
most  of  the  year.  But  with  your  girl  it  will  be  dif- 
ferent." 

"She  would  only  have  to  show  herself,"  said  Mrs. 
Titus,  repeating  Mrs.  Larremore' s  words. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Hatch.  "It  is  well  to 
have  no  illusions  about  these  things.  The  big  city  is  a 
horrible  maelstrom." 

Just  then  Crummy  gave  a  loud  war-whoop.  After 
innumerable  failures,  he  had  at  last  succeeded  in  lasso- 
ing the  cat.  He  came  up  on  the  piazza  leaving  a  trail 
of  wet  mud  in  his  wake,  and  dragging  his  victim  behind 
him. 

"We're  going  to  play  at  the  French  Relovution  to- 
morrow. There's  to  be  an  execootion,  and  this  cat's 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  47 

got  to  die, ' '  he  explained.  ' '  Sister  May-Margaret  says 
she'll  make  me  a  gibbetine." 

The  cat  spluttered  and  her  eyeballs  protruded  from 
their  sockets,  but  when  he  released  her,  upon  his 
father's  command,  she  came  back  for  more,  whining. 
Master  Wace  would  have  been  too  wise,  but  this  was  a 
silly  feminine  thing  which  had  wandered  over  from  the 
next  place. 

' '  How  are  you,  Crummy,  my  dear  ?' '  asked  his 
cousin  Martha,  suavely.  She  disliked  him  thoroughly 
for  an  unmannered,  unwashed,  disagreeable  little  cub. 

But  Crummy,  who  was  still  practising  his  blood-cur- 
dling lesson,  did  not  deign  to  answer. 

"  Mummy,  can  I  go  in  swimming  ?" 

"Why,  you  just  came  out,"  said  his  papa. 

"  How  long  ago  did  you  eat  ?"  asked  his  mother. 

"I  had  lemon  pie  at  the  servants'  supper,"  said 
Crummy. 

He  had  read  the  story  of  Ananias  and  Sapphira,  and 
he  was  a  God-fearing  if  a  dirty  little  boy. 

"Then  you  can't  go  in,"  said  his  mother. 

Then  Crummy  set  up  a  wail,  and  had  to  be  consoled 
and  cajoled  and  given  a  puff-ball  which  belonged  to  his 
sister  May-Margaret,  and  which  she  had  expressly 
hidden  from  him  under  the  piazza,  trellis-work,  but 
which  she  now  volunteered  to  bestow  upon  him  if  he 
would  only  stop  screaming  and  be  a  good  boy  once 
more. 

During  this  process  of  pacification  Mr.  Hatch,  entirely 
undisturbed,  began  to  discourse  on  a  new  criticism  of 
Senancourt  which  he  had  just  been  reading  aloud  to  his 
wife. 

"He  breathed,"  said  Mr.  Hatch,  "the  air  of  high 
mountains  and  fragrant  forests.  He  escaped  the  heat 


48  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

and  glare  of  practical  day,  and  leads  one  to  contem- 
plative repose.  So  says  this  critic,  and  he  is  right.  It 
is  a  relief  from  that  vulgaire  des  sages  whose  common- 
places De  Senancourt  so  abhorred,  and  from  which  he 
was  himself  so  free." 

He  wandered  then  to  speak  of  the  English  poets  of 
the  last  generation,  of  Byron,  that  meteoric  creature 
consumed  with  the  fevers  of  life,  whose  lot  was  cast 
among  spent  activities,  and  he  gave  his  visitors  a  disser- 
tation upon  his  merits  and  demerits. 

"Darling,"  whispered  his  wife,  leaning  against  his 
shoulder,  ' '  I  like  to  hear  you  talk. ' ' 

"  Now  you  must  tell  the  cousins  our  news,"  said  Mr. 
Hatch,  smiling  at  his  wife,  dismissing  Senancourt  and 
Byron  in  a  trice,  as  men  of  the  world  alone  know  how 
to  do. 

"Yes,  we  have  a  great  piece  of  news,"  said  Mrs. 
Hatch. 

May- Margaret  looked  up  from  her  occupation,  that 
of  pulling  Layamon's  tail,  and  said,  in  her  soft  drawl, — 

' '  Guess,  Cousin  Martha.  It' s  very  interesting. 
We're  all  wildly  excited." 

But  Cousin  Martha  had  no  taste  for  riddles,  and  could 
not  guess. 

Then  they  were  told  that  Muriel  was  engaged  to  be 
married  to  Willie  Truden. 

' '  Martha  is  an  admirable  woman,  even  a  strong 
woman,"  said  Mrs.  Hatch,  as  the  Hyatt  Tituses  drove 
away,  "but  she  has  not  the  gift  of  sympathy.  She 
took  our  news  coldly." 

"And  her  girl's  just  like  her,"  said  Mr.  Hatch. 
"  Notsimpatica, — not  to  me,  at  least.  They  were  born 
hard." 

Mrs.  Titus  thought  life  in  fact  rather  hard  as  she 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  49 

crunched  off  in  her  low,  easy  conveyance.  Muriel ! 
Was  it  possible  !  Well,  why  not  ?  On  their  silent 
homeward  drive  tacitly  she  and  her  husband  ignored 
the  subject.  But  Mrs.  Hyatt  Titus  realized  that  the 
strength  of  a  desire  is  not  gauged  until  it  has  been  frus- 
trated. How  rounded,  how  perfect  is  the  wish  which 
has  become  hopeless  !  It  is  the  same  with  love.  Its 
frenzy  lies  in  its  denials.  Fate  is  cruel ;  and  it  is  not 
given  to  all  to  cry,  "  Though  he  slay  me,  yet  will  I 
praise  him." 

Mrs.  Hyatt  Titus  was  a  "wife  and  mother."  Her 
acquaintances  were  never  left  in  doubt  as  to  that  fact. 
But  of  the  magnetic  currents  that  sway  the  destinies  of 
men  and  women,  of  the  blind  forces  that  control  them, 
of  the  scars  and  jars  and  jangles  of  human  motive,  she 
knew  as  little  as  the  lively  kitten  which  ran  under  her 
rocking-chair  to  catch  her  ball  of  worsted,  or  as  the 
rows  of  splendid  cabbages  that  adorned  the  kitchen- 
garden  behind  the  terraced  walk. 

She  paid  no  more  visits  that  afternoon. 


IV. 

Miss  HYATT  TITUS  had  on  one  of  her  most  aesthetic 
gowns,  and  was  carrying  a  tinted  cream-and-gold  edition 
of  ^Eschylus  in  one  hand, — how  she  loathed  it  all,  ex- 
cept the  binding  ! — as  she  stepped  across  the  lawn  to 
meet  Mrs.  Larremore,  who,  followed  by  the  Earl  of 
Brownlow,  walked  in  at  the  gate.  Mrs.  Larremore  was 
flushed  and  rather  tired. 

Fighting  fat  was  all  very  well,  if  one  had  the  man  of 

one's  heart  beside  one  to  tell  one  that  it  had  been  fought 

to  some  purpose.     But  this  lubberly  Englishman,  this 

"  Brownie,"  was  not  complimentary,  not  even  amusing ; 

c       d  5 


SO  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

appallingly  dull,  in  fact.  When  he  opened  his  big 
mouth  at  all  to  a  woman  it  was  generally  to  vaunt  the 
charms  of  some  absent  one.  On  this  occasion  his  en- 
thusiasm had  found  vent  in  extolling  the  loveliness  of 
Muriel  Hatch.  Mrs.  Larremore  was  becoming  a  little 
sick  of  it.  She  wondered  how  it  would  seem  to  belong 
to  that  large  and  long-suffering  class  of  women  who  ac- 
cept this  sort  of  pabulum  as  their  every-day  ration  ;  who 
are  talked  to  by  men  about  other  women's  attractions, 
who  climb  mountains  with  other  women's  lovers,  are 
rowed  about  lakes  by  sporadic  males  in  flannel  shirts, 
simply  as  ballast  and  nothing  more,  fasten  on  other 
girls'  veils  and  bouquets  de  corsage  for  them,  stand  about 
on  side-walks  while  their  friends  pass  on  coaches,  and, 
what  is  worse,  are  sunk  in  such  an  apathy  of  dreari- 
ness that  they  do  not  even  fathom  the  horror  of  their 
situation. 

Miss  Hyatt  Titus  invited  them  to  sit  under  the  trees 
while  she  called  her  mamma,  but  Mrs.  Larremore  ex- 
pressed herself  surfeited  with  heat  and  glare  after  this 
exercise  imposed  upon  herself  for  the  conservation  of 
her  figure's  lines,  and  said  she  would  prefer  to  go  into 
the  house.  Here  in  a  moment  Mrs.  Hyatt  Titus  joined 
her,  and  the  daughter  of  the  house,  looking  coyly  up 
at  the  young  Englishman  from  under  her  long  lashes, 
suggested  to  this  gentleman  a  walk  in  the  garden. 

Mrs.  Larremore,  having  been  given  a  fan,  had  soon 
regained  her  elegant  composure  in  the  dim  freshness 
of  a  pleasant  drawing-room.  Some  glasses  of  lemonade 
were  brought  in. 

"  Is  there  sugar?"  asked  Mrs.  Larremore.  "I  must 
take  it  very  sour,  on  account  of  my  banting."  Her 
heightened  color  only  added  to  her  beauty. 

So  thought  Mr.  Hyatt  Titus,  who,  to  his  wife's  sur- 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  51 

prise,  not  only  did  not  endeavor  to  escape,  as  was  his 
wont  when  visitors  were  announced,  but  came  in  and 
established  himself  in  a  large  arm-chair  in  close  prox- 
imity to  Mrs.  Larremore's  skirts. 

"This  is  the  Luna  moth  of  which  I  spoke  to  you," 
said  he,  handing  a  tiny  twig  with  a  worm  sitting  upon 
it  to  the  "goddess." 

"What  an  old  idiot,  with  his  Luna  !"  thought  Mrs. 
Larremore.  But  she  smiled  sweetly,  and,  leaning  for- 
ward, took  the  thing  in  her  hands. 

She  was  not  afraid  of  worms  or  of  mice  or  of  men. 
That  sort  of  squeamishness  has  gone  out  of  date.  But 
she  did  not  care  much  for  natural  history,  except,  in- 
deed, such  as  the  realistic  novelists  afforded  her.  She 
leaned  forward  and  asked  questions  intently,  as  if  the 
Luna  was  the  key-note  of  her  aspiration,  the  long- 
sought-for  problem  of  a  wasted  career. 

She  did  not  twist  cigarettes  to-day,  nor  allude  to  her 
tight  lacing.  Her  movements  were  easy  and  rhythmical 
in  raiment  of  lace  and  mull  which  lent  itself  clingingly 
to  her  plastic  poses.  Her  converse,  indeed,  was  soft 
and  seemly,  and  her  manners,  like  her  dress,  perfect. 
Yet  Mrs.  Hyatt  Titus  was  uneasy  in  her  presence.  She 
had  that  vague  sense  of  disapproval  which  had  haunted 
her  before,  and  which  seemed  to  rob  her  of  her  powers 
of  speech.  She  found  herself — and  she  took  pride  in 
speaking  the  purest  English — awkward  in  her  words, 
involved  in  her  sentences,  and  even  at  times  growing 
ungrammatical.  Mrs.  Larremore's  pervasive,  nervous 
vitality  was  simply  too  much  for  her  own,  and  she 
finally  collapsed  into  long  silences. 

Her  husband,  on  the  contrary,  seemed  peculiarly  ex- 
hilarated. He  talked  incessantly,  and,  she  noticed, 
really  appeared  to  very  unusual  advantage.  He  took 


52  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

Mrs.  Larremore  about  to  show  her  his  pictures  and 
books,  his  museum  of  curiosities,  the  lady  swaying 
after  him  gracefully,  trailing  her  delicate  draperies. 
' '  Cleverly  done !  Exquisite !  A  fine  bit  of  foreground ! 
Most  instructive  !" — she  murmured,  as  the  occasion 
might  warrant,  while  the  hostess  brought  up  the  rear 
in  her  short,  round  frock  which  the  laundress  seemed 
to  have  stupidly  overstarched  for  the  occasion.  And 
by  and  by  they  stepped  out  across  the  lawn  to  see 
the  chickens, — wonderful  fowls  that  had  won  no  end  of 
prizes  and  honorable  mentions, — and  Mrs.  Larremore 
actually  looked  at  and  extolled  them. 

In  the  mean  while  the  earl  was  being  dragged  by  his 
fair  companion  farther  away  over  the  Hyatt  Titus 
property,  and  as  she  dragged  him  she  managed  to 
bother  him  a  good  deal  about  ^schylus. 

' '  He  was  fifty-three  when  he  took  his  first  prize  for 
the  Persians,  you  know,"  she  said. 

"You  don't  say  !"  said  the  earl.  "It  seems  rather 
old,  doesn't  it?" 

"It  proves,"  said  Miss  Hyatt  Titus,  encouragingly, 
"that  it  is  never  too  late  to  improve  one's  self.  One 
may  learn  .  .  .  one  may  succeed  .  .  .  late. ' ' 

"I  should  say  that  was  rather  slow,  though,  eh?" 
said  the  earl,  with  an  attempt  at  jocularity,  and  falling 
over  at  the  same  moment  a  concealed  stump.  He 
picked  up  a  large  foot  and  began  to  nurse  it. 

"Take  care  you  don't  fall,"  said  Miss  Hyatt  Titus. 
"There  are  lots  of  these  stumps  in  this  pine  copse." 

"They're  damned  ...  er  ...  I  beg  your  pardon 
.  .  .  unpleasant, ' '  said  the  earl,  again  stubbing  his  toes. 
"Why  don't  you  have  them  ...  er  ...  removed?" 

"There's  so  much  to  be  done  on  such  a  large  do- 
main," said  Violet. 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  53 

The  place  of  sixty  acres  did  not,  however,  seem  to 
greatly  dazzle  the  Earl  of  Brownlow,  who  drove  twenty 
miles  from  his  gate  at  Draco  Towers  to  the  portals  of 
his  home,  and  who  had  several  other  estates  of  almost 
similar  proportions  ;  nor  did  the  tiny  glass  houses 
through  which  his  young  hostess  propelled  his  bulki- 
ness  startle  a  young  gentleman  accustomed  to  miles  of 
graperies  and  palm -houses.  He  made  no  allusion, 
however,  to  any  of  his  possessions.  But  everything 
that  the  girl  had  and  knew,  had  not  and  did  not  know, 
was  made  to  dance  in  his  honor. 

When  they  returned  to  the  house,  Mr.  Hyatt  Titus, 
who  seemed  in  high  good  humor,  again,  to  the  amaze- 
ment of  his  women,  was  cordial  to  the  stranger,  and 
even  invited  him  to  come  and  pass  a  few  days. 

"Thanks  awfully.  I'm  off  for  the  Rockies,"  said 
the  earl. 

"When  you  come  back,  then,"  said  the  man  of 
affairs  to  the  man  of  pleasure. 

"I'd  like  it  immensely,"  said  the  earl. 

Then  Mrs.  Hyatt  Titus  chimed  in,  and  the  time  was 
fixed  for  six  weeks  later. 

"What  in  the  world,"  said  Mrs.  Larremore  to  him 
later  on  their  way  home,  "possessed  you  to  accept 
that  invitation?  Those  people  would  put  me  under 
the  sod  in  three  days,  with  their  '  culture'  and  their 
chickens.  Why  will  superficial  undigested  culture 
always  howl  and  roar  when  the  real  assimilated  article 
slips  about  silently  and  unobtrusively  ?  Did  the  child 
drag  you  about  to  see  the  chickens,  too  ?  My  brother- 
in-law  raises  chickens  at  his  place.  To  me  chickens 
all  look  exactly  alike.  They're  very  tiresome.  But 
one  can  never  tell  about  these  things.  He  insists  there 
are  enormous  differences.  It  may  be  so.  The  girl's 

5* 


54  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

picturesque,"  continued  Mrs.  Larremore,  "but  she's 
disappointing. ' ' 

' '  She  worries  one  awfully, ' '  said  the  earl. 

"  I  can  well  imagine,  Brownie,  that  the  aesthetic 
literary  is  not  your  type." 

She  did  not  ask  him  what  his  type  was,  nor  look  up 
at  him  coquettishly.  It  was  quite  useless.  There  was 
no  use  in  wasting  one's  shot.  Well,  no  matter.  Con- 
solation was  coming  up  in  the  4. 10  boat  that  night. 

"  I  think  the  Hatch  girls  are  jolly." 

"  There  are  a  great  many  of  them." 

"  I  like  Muriel,"  said  the  earl. 

' '  Ah  !  Of  course.  You  like  Muriel,  man-like,  be- 
cause she's  mortgaged." 

' '  Do  you  think  she  cares  for  the  fellow,  Mrs.  Larre- 
more ?"  Brownlow's  face  gloomed. 

"Who  can  tell  anything  about  girls?"  said  Mrs. 
Larremore,  sighing.  And  then  she  added,  with  that 
distinct  taste  for  mischief  which  possessed  her,  ' '  Why 
don't  you  stay  and  cut  him  out  yourself,  Brownie  ?" 

The  earl's  heavy  face  brightened  as  he  turned  to 
her. 

' '  Now  you  chaff, ' '  he  said. 

The  Hyatt  Tituses  gave  a  dinner-party.  It  was  in 
honor  of  Muriel  Hatch  and  Willie  Truden.  Miss  Hyatt 
Titus  covered  her  cousin  with  congratulations,  affection, 
and  flowers.  Willie  Truden  was  in  high  spirits.  But 
Muriel  was  silent.  Her  dark  blue  eyes  had  a  sombre, 
strange  expression  in  their  depths,  and  her  laughing 
mouth  was  almost  stern.  Arriving  a  little  late,  she  ex- 
plained, somewhat  flustered,  that  the  Earl  of  Brownlow 
had  come  to  say  good-by  to  them  all,  and  that  she  had 
not  noticed  the  hour. 

"He's  coming  to  stop  with  us  when  he  returns,"  said 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  55 

her  cousin,  in  a  disengaged  manner,  but  with  a  secret 
toss  of  triumph. 

"That  will  be  just  in  time  for  the  wedding,"  said 
Willie  Truden. 

' '  Is  it  to  be  so  soon  ?' '  asked  Mrs.  Titus,  suavely. 

"Just  as  soon  as  ever  Muriel's  willing,"  said  Willie 
Truden,  ardently.  "I'll  be  on  hand,  you  may  be 
certain. ' ' 

But  Muriel  still  said  nothing. 

It  was  just  two  weeks  before  the  wedding-day  that 
the  earl  returned.  He  was  landed  with  his  traps,  his 
tub,  his  valise,  his  boxes,  his  bag,  his  shawls  and  his 
umbrellas,  his  hat-boxes,  his  rifle,  his  fishing-tackle,  on 
the  Hyatt  Titus  piazza,  steps.  One  or  two  girls  and  a 
couple  of  young  men  had  been  found  and  pressed  into 
service  as  a  nucleus  to  the  house-party  invited  to  wel- 
come him.  But  I  may  as  well  say  at  once  that  on  this 
visit,  which  lasted  ten  long  days,  the  Brownlow  es- 
cutcheon did  not  cover  itself  with  glory, — this  visit,  for 
which  Miss  Titus  had  provided  herself  with  three  new 
frocks,  four  new  hats,  and,  oh,  with  what  dreamings  ! 

Very  early  every  morning  Draco  carried  himself,  or 
had  himself  carried,  across  the  lake,  and  remained  until 
twilight  fell  at  the  house  of  Hatch.  In  vain  Miss  Hyatt 
Titus  asked  him  to  join  this  or  that  picnic  or  party,  or- 
ganized before  his  arrival  for  his  especial  benefit,  ramped 
in  fury  up  and  down  the  length  and  breadth  and  silence 
of  her  own  bed-chamber,  bullied  her  mother  when  she 
caught  her  alone  on  the  back  stairs,  or  came  down 
smiling  sweetly  into  the  arena  where  women  must  meet 
friend  and  foe  alike  with  unruffled  calm  and  accept  mor- 
tification with  a  serene  front. 

Once  only  did  the  earl  consent  to  join  one  of  these 
excursions,  and  this  was  upon  an  occasion  when  Muriel 


56  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 


Hatch  was  of  the  party.  Hery?aw^  had  gone  up  to 
town  that  day  to  look  to  some  final  arrangements  for 
the  wedding  which  was  drawing  nigh. 

The  excursion  led  them  across  the  sand-spit.  They 
were  to  drive  in  half  a  dozen  vehicles,  then  to  embark 
in  various  sailing-craft,  and  after  an  hour's  sail  the 
pleasure-seekers  would  be  landed  upon  a  wild,  lonely 
shore.  Here  would  be  found  lots  of  surf,  sand,  and 
rock,  and  a  wooden  structure  with  a  pavilion  which 
pushed  itself  seaward,  and  under  whose  green-and- 
white  awnings  soft-shell  crabs  and  roasted  clams  were 
served  up  in  specially  toothsome  fashion  to  such  persons 
as  needed  refection. 

It  was  too  soon  for  luncheon  when  they  landed,  so 
the  party  scattered  in  twos  and  threes,  mostly  twos,  and 
wandered  off  to  the  rocks.  Miss  Hyatt  Titus  made  a 
dab  for  Brownlow  as  a  matter  of  vanity,  for  she  was 
beginning  to  hate  him.  But,  heavy  as  he  was,  he 
managed  to  elude  her  rather  cleverly,  and  was  soon 
walking  off  under  the  fluttering  guidance  of  Muriel 
Hatch's  pink  petticoat.  She  wore  a  jaunty  sailor-hat 
with  a  rose-colored  ribbon  about  it.  The  wind  was  in 
her  wavy  brown  hair.  She  seemed  very  lovely  and 
very  desirable  to  the  young  Englishman.  He  lounged 
by  her  side  through  the  damp  sand  which  the  receding 
tides  had  left  encrusted  with  shiny  pebbles  and  gaudy 
shells  ;  her  narrow  foot  and  his  broad  one  left  prints 
behind  them  into  which  the  water  rose  darkling. 

"  I  say,"  said  the  earl,  "  aren't  you  tired?  Let  me 
swing  you  up  here.  '  ' 

So  saying,  he  seized  the  girl's  hands  and  drew  her 
up  by  his  side  on  the  ledge  of  rocks  which  they  had 
reached,  and  behind  which  they  found  the  waves  lash- 
ing themselves  into  fervor. 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  57 

"It's  splendid  here,"  said  Muriel,  drawing  in  her 
breath  quickly.  ' '  I  like  this  spray  cutting  my  face. 
It  gives  one  courage." 

"Is  that  what  you  want,  courage?"  said  the  earl, 
looking  at  her  very  hard.  "You're  plucky  enough,  I 
fancy." 

' '  I  shall  need  it  all,  all  the  courage  I  have.  But  not 
for  what  you  believe,"  said  Muriel. 

' '  I  don' t  know  what  to  believe. ' ' 

"Promise  me  you'll  not  think  ill  of  me,  whatever 
happens." 

' '  How  can  I  think  ill  of  you,  when  .  .  .  ' 

Muriel  put  a  finger  on  her  lip.     ' '  Take  care, ' '  she  said. 

"I'm  perfectly  miserable,"  said  the  earl. 

"  I  have  a  secret  to  tell  you,  my  friend,"  said  Muriel, 
solemnly.  "  May  I  intrust  it  to  your  honor?" 

"That's  all  right,"  said  the  earl,  shaking  his  head. 

"I  shall  never  marry  Willie  Truden,"  said  Muriel, 
solemnly. 

' '  I  say  !' '  said  the  earl. 

"  Never,  never  !  It's  been  a  horrible  mistake.  Hor- 
rible !  You  may  as  well  know  it, — I'm  going  to  run 
away. ' ' 

"Where  shall  you  go?M  eagerly,  edging  a  little 
nearer. 

But  Muriel  drew  away  from  him,  keeping  him  at  some 
distance. 

' '  I  know  not ;  probably  to  San  Francisco,  or  perhaps 
to  Greece.  I  may  try  to  get  a  place  as  a  governess  or 
a  type- writer,  or  something  like  that,"  said  Muriel,  "  or 
else  I  shall  go  on  the  stage.  My  family  will  hear  of  me 
no  more  forever.  I  shall  be  lost  to  them." 

"Oh,  Muriel!  take  me  with  you,"  said  the  earl, 
growing  crimson,  ' '  for  I  love  you. ' ' 


$8  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

"Oh!"  said  Muriel. 

' '  I  adore  you  !    You'  re  the  darlingest  girl  I  ever  saw. ' ' 

' '  That' s  what  you  said  of  my  cousin  that  first  night 
in  the  boat." 

' '  I  said  that  of  your  cousin  ?  I  never  said  it :  I  never 
thought  it.  What !  That  silly  little  girl  ?" 

"  Yes,  you  did  ;  and  she's  never  silly.  That's  what's 
the  matter  with  her." 

' '  I  must  have  been  thinking  about  you.  I  was  crazy 
then  already,  wretched.  I  didn't  know  what  I  was 
about." 

If  this  was  one  of  those  perjuries  at  which  the  gods 
laugh,  Muriel,  being  a  mortal  maiden,  swallowed  it. 

' '  Will  you  really  help  to  save  me  from  my  revolting 
fate  ?' '  she  asked,  tragically. 

The  revolting  fate  was  indulging  in  shrimps  and  a 
glass  of  port  at  Delmonico's  at  that  very  moment ;  con- 
sidered as  an  epitome  of  an  unhappy  destiny,  he  cer- 
tainly looked  mild  enough. 

"I'll  carry  you  off  this  very  minute  to  the  city  and 
we'll  be  married  to-night  by  the  first  parson  we  meet, 
if  you'll  only  say  you  love  me,  Muriel." 

4 '  I  worship  you  !' '  said  Muriel. 

"Then  Willie  Truden  can  go  to  the  devil,"  said  the 
earl. 

1 '  As  fast  as  ever  he  chooses.  There  are  so  many  of 
us  ;  I  thought  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  the  others. 
But  ...  I  can't,"  said  Muriel,  a  little  wildly,  inebri- 
ated, no  doubt,  by  the  sharp  air  and  her  new  lord's 
bold  methods. 

"  I  found,"  she  continued,  raising  her  head  and 
looking  at  him,  "that  I  liked  you  best." 

"  Oh,  my  beauty  !  Give  me  your  lips,"  said  Draco, 
with  Homeric  simplicity  and  fire. 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  59 

"  No,"  said  Muriel.     "  Never.     Here  is  my  hand." 

He  took  and  wrung  her  thin  brown  fingers  in  his 
pink  ones.  She  had  shaken  off  Truden's  large  diamond 
— she  would  have  called  it  the  insignia  of  her  slavery — 
into  her  top  drawer  that  morning,  and  wore  for  all 
adornment  on  her  littlest  finger  a  jagged  silver  circle 
cut  out  of  a  ten-cent  piece  by  Master  Crummy. 

But,  like  Canute,  the  lover  cannot  stop  the  waves  of 
life,  and  a  moment  later  their  young  lips  had  met  and 
clung.  It  was  a  salt  caress,  for  the  sea  had  kissed  them 
first,  leaving  behind  its  taste  of  ardent  brine. 

The  first  physical  touch  is  the  abyss  in  which  many 
an  ideal  has  foundered.  There  are  kisses  that  seal  a 
man's  freedom,  as  there  are  those  which  rivet  his  bond- 
age. Mary  Hatch  and  her  poet-husband  had  distilled 
in  the  veins  of  their  offspring  some  drop  of  flame,  fused 
of  their  own  loving.  It  seemed  all  concentrated  to-day 
in  Muriel's  breath  of  roses. 

"I'm  the  happiest  man  on  earth,"  said  the  earl, 
drinking  of  its  sweetness  with  rapt  fervor.  "You're 
just  too  perfectly  lovely,  you  know." 

"What  will  our  .  .  .  families  say?"  said  Muriel, 
settling  her  hat. 

How  horrid  Truden  had  seemed  to  her  !  She  never 
would  sit  and  talk  to  him  through  their  brief  betrothal 
unless  her  mother  were  in  the  room  and  the  library 
table  between  them,  and  here  .  .  .  ! 

"Oh,  hang  the  families  !  I've  only  my  sister,  and 
she's  got  nothing  to  say  on  the  subject ;  and  as  to 
yours — well,  if  they  cut  up  rough  we'll  arrange  it  all 
when  .  .  .  when  we  get  back." 

"Yes,  ...  let  us  forget  everybody,"  said  Muriel, 
still  a  little  intoxicated  by  the  winds  and  waves  of  this 
new  sea, — "  it's  so  .  .  .  so  delicious  here." 


60  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

"Yes,"  said  the  earl,  "perfectly  delicious." 

"And  I  don't  know  why,"  said  Muriel,  "but  it's 
being  wrong  seems  to  make  it  nicer,  sweeter,  dearer, 
doesn't  it?" 

Ah,  Muriel !  daughter  of  Eden  !  The  hot  sun 
flooded  their  young  hearts. 

"It  isn't  wrong,"  said  the  young  man,  his  brow 
irradiated  by  his  adoration.  "It's  the  other  thing  that 
was  criminal,  don't  you  see?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Muriel,  who  had  inherited 
analytical  tendencies  from  her  papa.  "  Can  a  thing  be 
wrong  if  the  motive  is  a  high  one  ?' ' 

"That's  rot,  you  know,"  said  the  more  practical 
Briton,  decidedly. 

"But,"  said  Muriel,  dreamily,  "it's  such  a  strange 
experience  of  mine,  when  I  do  wrong  I  am  not  always 
conscious  of  God's  displeasure.  I  still  feel  as  if  he 
loved  me  and  would  have  a  care  for  me  in  spite  of  all." 

"  Of  course  he  loves  you." 

"I  sometimes  think,"  said  Muriel,  earnestly,  "it  is 
quite  impossible  there  should  only  be  room  in  his  sight 
and  his  heaven  for  the  narrow,  tiresome,  disagreeable, 
dull  people  who  are  called  'good,' — people  like  Cousin 
Martha,  for  instance.  Don't  you  suppose  he  likes  the 
others  too, — they  that  are  wider  and  wilder,  though 
sometimes  erring  ?  Think  what  heaven  will  be  like  if 
the  great  and  the  brilliant,  who  are  so  often  wayward, 
are  to  be  shut  out  of  it  forever  and  forever  !  What  do 
you  think  ?' ' 

"  'Pon  my  honor,  I've  never  thought  about  it  at  all, 
you  know,"  said  the  earl.  "There's  a  dear  girl — I 
wouldn't  bother." 

A  shadow  fell  over  Muriel's  beautiful  face :  it  came  of 
the  first  perceived  lack  of  sympathy.  Muriel's  was  not 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  6 1 

a  nature  to  be  filled  easily.  Her  deep  and  restless  heart 
marked  her  d'avance  as  one  of  those  women  who  are 
to  have  a  career  in  love  and  who  are  to  be  tossed  on 
many  breakers.  But  Muriel  was  a  fine  and  healthy 
young  creature  who  loved  the  sunshine  with  its  glory 
and  warmth,  and  the  moment  now  sufficed. 

The  earl  blinked  his  eyes  like  a  young  owl,  blinded 
by  the  light  in  his  own  soul.  On  Muriel's  horizon 
arose  fugitive  palaces  and  shadowy  gardens  where 
every  dream  and  desire  should  be  reached. 

V. 

HAVING  failed  to  capture  the  earl,  Miss  Highty 
Tighty  had  turned  her  mind  towards  smaller  game. 
There  was  the  new  young  clergyman.  He  had  arrived 
to  pay  a  parochial  call,  just  as  the  battalion  was  wheel- 
ing off,  and  had  weakly  yielded  to  the  entreaties  of 
two  somewhat  neglected  maidens,  who  brought  up  the 
rear  of  the  procession  in  a  species  of  go-cart,  to  climb 
in  with  them  and  join  the  procession.  Miss  Highty 
Tighty  had  smiled  and  called  out  from  the  head  of  the 
line,  where  she  was  marshalling  her  forces,  that  she 
would  be  ' '  charmed' '  if  he  would  do  so. 

It  may  be  said  here  that  this  earnest  young  priest 
was  much  torn  between  a  distinct  desire  to  do  his  duty, 
to  be  ascetic,  to  be  self-sacrificing, — he  advocated  the 
celibacy  of  the  priesthood, — and  strong  natural  pro- 
clivities to  pleasure.  He  had  a  high  appreciation  of  all 
the  joys  nature  proffers,  and,  above  all,  that  of  le  haut 
parfum  feminin.  This  perfume  was  too  much  for  him 
on  this  lovely  summer's  morning,  and  he  swung  him- 
self up  behind  the  go-cart  with  more  alacrity  than  he 
would  have  cared  to  admit  in  the  confessional. 

6 


62  THE  FIKST  FLIGHT 

It  must  be  conceded,  however,  that  persons  who 
incessantly  sacrifice  their  tastes  and  desires  to  others, 
and  appear  devoid  of  every  form  of  egoism,  have  gen- 
erally a  low  vitality,  a  certain  lack  of  temperament,  an 
indifference  to  the  interests  of  their  own  destinies, 
which  do  not  always  spring  from  positively  generous 
purposes.  A  healthy  love  of  life  is  naturally  selfish  ; 
if  all  selfish  effort  were  criminal,  the  ponderous  wheels 
of  the  earth's  machinery  would  soon  grow  clogged. 
Fortunately,  we  need  have  no  fear  in  this  matter.  The 
Father  Damiens  will  remain  forever  exceptional  creat- 
ures, before  whom  a  world  may  well  stand  uncovered. 

The  new  country  parish  of  the  Rev.  Clement  Para- 
chute was  made  up  largely,  nay,  almost  exclusively,  of 
city  people,  who  had  themselves  driven  up  to  the  church 
of  a  Sunday  morning,  in  a  variety  of  fine  equipages, 
dressed  in  smart  summer  bravery, — they  usually  arrived 
late, — and  left  an  empty  treasury  and  vacant  pews  behind 
them  in  the  autumn.  In  this  dispiriting  atmosphere  he 
hoped  that  the  Hyatt  Tituses  would  be  found  a  tonic 
and  a  support.  They  were,  he  was  told,  the  oldest 
inhabitants,  and  the  stanchest  church  people.  They 
were  also  the  richest,  which  was  more  to  the  point. 
The  young  lady  was,  therefore,  doubly  interesting  to 
him,  not  only  as  his  hostess  of  to-day,  but  as  a  possible 
ally  in  his  work  of  to-morrow.  He  strongly  believed 
in  attracting  the  younger  and  more  ardent  element. 
He  was  himself  both  young  and  ardent. 

He  was  a  thin,  deep-eyed,  narrow-chested  fellow, 
burning  with  energy  and  ambition,  a  trifle  reckless  of 
consecrated  opinion,  intelligent,  even  possessing  some 
talent,  and  of  a  romantic,  warm  disposition.  Having 
failed  to  impress  the  earl,  Miss  Hyatt  Titus  decided  to 
impress  this  ingenuous  divine.  Not  being  a  young 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  63 

person  of  much  imagination  or  resource,  nothing  better 
suggested  itself  to  her  than  to  "talk  shop"  to  him, — 
in  other  words,  to  show  the  profoundest  interest  in  the 
church,  in  the  parochial  work,  and  the  poor  of  the 
neighborhood.  A  pretty  girl  with  a  mauve  parasol, 
who  hangs  on  your  words,  and  seems  to  consider 
"slumming"  the  end  of  existence,  is  not  often  too 
strictly  analyzed  by  such  a  critic  as  the  Reverend 
Clement  Parachute.  How  could  he  fathom  the  vexa- 
tion of  his  fair  companion  at  the  defection  of  that  ill- 
bred  lout  the  Briton,  and  the  poignant  resentment 
which  Muriel  Hatch's  indiscreet  behavior  was,  for  some 
occult  reason,  stirring  in  her  cousin's  breast?  "She 
is  a  bad  girl,"  she  was  saying  to  herself;  the  thought 
was  pleasant  to  her  and  pregnant.  Undoubtedly  the 
house-fly,  that  commonplace  member  of  every  house- 
hold, mistakes  every  spot  on  the  table-cloth  for  an 
eclipse  of  the  sun. 

When  she  leaned  to  him  smiling,  he  saw  only  a 
gleam  of  pretty  teeth,  and  heard  with  pleasure  her 
assurances  that  she  would  slum  with  him  any  day  he 
might  select  or  see  fit ;  that,  in  fact,  literary  pursuits 
and  "slumming"  were  the  only  occupations  which 
pleased  and  gratified  her.  If  she  made  these  as- 
surances in  a  somewhat  distraite  manner,  it  eluded  the 
clergyman's  spiritual  perceptions. 

Mrs.  Larremore,  in  the  mean  while,  was  making  the 
most  of  the  "Consolation,"  who,  in  a  pair  of  white 
duck  trousers  and  a  blue  flannel  jacket,  was  lying  on 
the  sands  at  her  feet.  This  lady  had  vouchsafed  to 
chaperon  the  party.  She  was  passing  a  couple  of  days 
at  the  Club  again,  and  had  provided  her  own  enter- 
tainment, with  a  proper  degree  of  forethought.  Mrs. 
Larremore  was  one  of  those  women  who  pass  to  have 


64  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

a  worse  bark  than  bite ;  in  other  words,  her  laxity  in 
conversation  was  her  protection.  There  are  simple 
souls  who  believe  that  still  waters  run  deep.  She 
therefore,  notwithstanding  one  or  two  rather  hazy 
moments  in  her  career,  always  managed  to  emerge  into 
the  light  of  day  with  an  untarnished  escutcheon  and 
flying  colors.  Her  pulses  were  always  cool ;  the 
sphygmograph  would  have  been  found  superfluous  to 
count  their  throbbings.  She  was  now  engaged  in  per- 
suading the  young  gentleman  at  her  feet,  who  was 
several  years  her  junior,  that  it  was  advisable  to  marry 
a  woman  much  older  than  one's  self.  She  could  not 
marry  him  now,  because  she  was  married  already  ;  but 
then  one  never  knew  what  misfortune  the  future  might 
present !  "It  is  only  the  monstrous  selfishness  of  the 
male,"  she  was  saying,  "  that  requires  a  young  creature 
to  serve  .his  brain-softening  processes.  All  women  of 
genius  have  treated  themselves,  late  in  life,  to  nice 
young  husbands,  and  I  think  it  was  a  proof  of  their 
wit.  Even  the  dignity  and  certainty  of  talent  requires 
companionship.  All  superiority  creates  a  vacuum  about 
it.  Genius  is  isolation.  Madame  de  Stae'l,  the  Duchess 
of  Albany,  Miss  Mulock,  Miss  Thackeray,  George 
Eliot,  etc., — clever  women  these." 

' '  But  how  great  a  difference  do  you  think  there 
ought  to  be  ?' '  asked  the  ' '  Consolation, ' '  anxiously. 

' '  What  are  years  where  there  is  ...  er  ...  love  ?' ' 
said  the  lady,  with  her  eyes  in  the  azure. 

' '  Yes,  yes,  of  course. ' ' 

"To  awaken  the  imagination,  to  touch  the  heart, 
that  is  everything." 

"Yes,  of  course,"  sighed  the  "Consolation,"  with 
an  elevated  lyric  eyebrow. 

"Time  robs  us  of  all  illusions,  but  establishes  the 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  65 

decisions  of  nature,  its  impulses,  its  magnetic  currents" 
.  .  .  "hang  it  if  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about," 
thought  Mrs.  Larremore,  who  was  not  devoid  of 
humor  ;  but  her  adorer  seemed  impressed. 

"What  a  clever  woman  you  are  !"  he  sighed,  look- 
ing up  at  her. 

' '  Depend  upon  it,  the  highest  forms  of  admiration 
and  of  love  are  those  gained  in  spite  of  something, 
under  protest:"  .  .  .  "that  is  better;  there  is  some 
wit  in  that,"  she  reflected. 

"I  feel  such  a  lout  near  you,"  said  the  "Consola- 
tion." "I  am  like  a  stupid,  sluggish,  straight  canal, 
and  you  like  a  beautiful,  sunlit,  meandering  river. ' ' 

' '  Rather  meandering,  that  is  a  fact, ' '  thought  Mrs. 
Larremore. 

' '  I  find  you  an  attractive  fellow,  you  know, ' '  she 
said,  brushing  his  hair  with  the  lace  of  her  sunshade. 
His  silly  heart  turned  over  in  his  breast  with  a  leap  and 
a  thump,  and  he  leaned  back  and  took  a  long  look  at 
her  eyes,  which  were  probably  delightful  to  men  be- 
cause they  were  always  free  from  blame  or  counsel. 
They  could  be  pitiful,  or  flash  with  fun,  but  were  rarely 
reproving,  which  was  comforting. 

So,  in  idle  babblings  the  day  wore  on,  and  by  and 
by  the  party,  a  trifle  sunbrowned  and  dishevelled,  a 
little  surfeited  with  winds  and  waves  and  each  other, 
met  again,  and  mounted  into  their  respective  equipages, 
and  were  driven  homeward  across  the  twilight. 

But  that  evening  there  was  a  great  cry  in  two  house- 
holds, for  two  of  the  party  were  among  the  missing : 
one  was  the  stranger  within  the  gates,  and  the  other 
the  pet  lamb  of  a  neighboring  fold  ! 

With  her  hair  secured  on  a  single  hair-pin,  and  a 
fresh,  crisp  peignior  over  her  modest  night-gown,  Mrs. 

e  6* 


66  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

Titus  sat  on  the  edge  of  her  daughter's  bed,  between 
whose  fragrant  sheets  this  coy  damsel  had  just  intro- 
duced herself. 

"To-morrow,"  she  said,  sententiously,  "to-morrow, 
after  luncheon,  your  father  and  myself  will  have  our- 
selves driven  over  to  the  Hatcheries.  I  must  condole 
with  your  unfortunate  cousin  Mary  upon  her  daughter's 
misconduct.  I  did  not  wish  to  intrude  too  soon." 

1 '  She  will  be  a  countess,  and  they  say  his  country- 
houses  are  legion." 

' '  Such  horrible  publicity  !' '  gasped  the  mother  ; 
"the  marriage  in  all  the  papers  already,  to-night,  with 
frightful  details !  Well,  Willie  Truden  has  had  a 
narrow  escape." 

' '  He  will  marry  Audrey  now ;  they  are  exactly 
suited.  Oh,  they  will  keep  him  !" 

' '  I  should  think  he  would  dread  that  family. ' ' 

"They  are  not  the  kind  that  men  dread,"  said  the 
girl,  raising  her  head  from  her  pillow,  upon  her  white 
arm  ;  ' '  and  the  sooner  that  is  understood,  the  better. ' ' 

Six  months  later  Audrey  did,  in  fact,  lead  her  sister's 
jilted  millionaire  to  the  altar  ;  and  she  has  made  him 
pay  for  the  fact  of  not  having  been  his  first  choice  by 
the  rapidity  with  which  she  assists  him  to  scatter  his 
ducats,  her  equipages  and  toilets  having  become,  I  am 
told,  the  talk  of  two  continents. 

Audrey  is  a  thick-haired,  strong-footed,  muscular, 
ambitious  young  person,  with  a  fine  figure.  She  sits 
in  a  carriage  regally.  She  is  far  better  suited  to  Willie 
Truden,  who  is  not  overburdened  with  brains,  than  the 
pleasure-loving,  easy-going  Muriel  could  ever  have 
been. 


THE   FIRST  FLIGHT  6j 

VI. 

THE  Reverend  Parachute  and  Miss  Hyatt  Titus 
started  forth  together  on  their  errand  of  charity  at 
eleven  o'clock  the  following  morning.  She  mentioned 
to  the  young  clergyman  a  certain  Mrs.  Deams  who  was 
supposed  to  be  sufficiently  poor  and  rheumatic  to  be- 
come an  object  of  sympathy.  Poverty  in  this  neigh- 
borhood was  a  comparative  term  ;  pauperism  was  un- 
known— everybody  had  jam  and  doughnuts  for  supper. 

Mrs.  Deams  lived  in  a  copse  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
town.  They  concluded  to  call  upon  her  first.  The  new 
young  rector  had  Mrs.  Deams  down  on  his  books,  but 
had  not  yet  made  her  acquaintance.  He  found  that  his 
fair  comrade  had  dressed  herself  expressly  for  the  ex- 
cursion. She  had  replaced  the  usual  aesthetic  fine  fabrics 
of  her  choice  by  a  gown  cut  from  a  material  of  dark 
and  serious  aspect  and  rather  antiquated  as  to  its  mode. 
Her  head  was  tied  up  in  a  bag  of  thick  black  veiling, 
and  a  sombre  sunshade  was  held  down  low  over  her 
eyes. 

They  walked  across  the  fields  together,  chatting  a 
little  stiffly,  and  less  than  twenty  minutes  brought  them 
to  the  back  of  Mrs.  Deams' s  property.  A  hole  in  the 
whitewashed  fence  could  readily  admit  them  into  a  small 
poultry-yard  which  adjoined  the  pig-sty,  whose  odors 
suggested  that  it  had  languished  uncared  for  through  a 
hot  season.  Across  this  unsavory  morass  a  narrow 
footpath  led  to  the  well  and  up  to  the  low  front  door 
with  its  honeysuckled  porch.  Just  as  they  cleared  the 
rail  fence  a  man  in  the  road  spied  Mr.  Parachute  and 
begged  him  to  step  out  and  speak  with  him  for  a  mo- 
ment. Miss  Hyatt  Titus  was,  therefore,  left  for  a  few 
minutes  alone.  She  was  standing  undecided  as  to  her 


68  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

next  move,  when  a  shrill  voice  accosted  her  from  an 
upper  window  : 

"Oh,  Mary  Jane,  did  you  bring  the  letter?" 

To  this  she  naturally  gave  no  response. 

"Oh,  Mary  Jane,"  persisted  the  voice,  querulously, 
"  are  ye  going  to  answer  me  or  no?  Did  ye  bring  the 
letter?" 

"I  am  not  .  .  .  Mary  Jane,"  adventured  Miss  Hyatt 
Titus. 

"  Lord  ha'  mercy  on  us,  miss  !"  said  Mrs.  Deams. 
' '  You  was  dressed  so  plain.  Who  ever  would  ha" 
thought  you  was  a  real  lady?"  And  with  this  ejacula- 
tion she  drew  her  head  into  the  house. 

Our  young  lady's  regret  at  the  severity  of  her  costume 
was  balanced  by  the  pleasure  she  felt  that  Mr.  Para- 
chute had  not  overheard  the  remark.  He  now  joined 
her,  and  Mrs.  Deams  issued  from  the  house.  She  was 
a  jagged  person,  very  tall,  and  dressed  in  a  nonde- 
script calico  garment,  somewhat  soiled,  which  fell  away 
straight  from  her  sharp  shoulders,  innocent  of  shapeli- 
ness or  of  belting.  On  her  scant  hair  she  wore  a  sun- 
bonnet,  from  which  protruded  her  gray,  gaunt  visage. 
Its  most  salient  trait  was  a  walrus  tooth  protruding  from 
under  her  long  upper  lip.  She  hurried  forward  hos- 
pitably, passing  the  back  of  her  hand  and  arm  across  her 
mouth  ;  then,  darting  at  her  visitor,  she  cast  a  sinewy 
arm  about  her  shrinking  figure  and  imprinted  a  tusky 
embrace  upon  her  recoiling  cheek.  She  then  shook 
hands  for  fully  five  minutes  with  a  certain  degree  of 
violence  with  the  young  priest,  while  the  girl  was 
trying  to  reconcile  herself  to  what  was  over,  a  philo- 
sophic wisdom  only  acquired  through  long  and  severe 
experience. 

Mrs.  Deams,  having  thus  emphasized  her  welcome, 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  69 

ushered  her  guests  into  her  best  parlor,  with  a  "  I  hope 
I  see  you  both  well."  This  apartment  was  not  in  very 
excellent  order,  but  Mrs.  Deams  had  one  attribute  of 
good  breeding  :  she  never  cast  discredit  upon  herself 
by  apology.  She  therefore  made  no  excuses  either  for 
her  disordered  rooms  or  for  her  negligent  apparel.  She 
was  evidently  bent  upon  entertaining  her  guests,  and 
only  wasted  a  few  inevitable  moments  in  remarks  upon 
health  and  weather.  Almost  immediately  after  they  had 
settled  themselves  she  rose  and  went  to  the  mantel- 
piece, from  whose  encumberment  she  disengaged  two 
photographs. 

"Them's  my  two  men,"  she  said. 

One  was  the  portrait  of  a  rough-hewn  farmer  dressed 
in  his  Sunday  clothes,  with  a  chin-beard  and  a  shock 
of  heavy  gray  hair  ;  a  man  of  about  sixty.  The  other 
was  that  of  a  much  younger  person,  with  a  dare-devil 
expression  in  his  eyes,  and  broad  shoulders.  He  looked 
like  a  clerk  in  some  small  city  store  out  for  his  holiday  ; 
such  a  young  gentleman  as  the  village  girls  call  ' '  in- 
teresting," with  a  pathetic  inflection  upon  the  "  rest." 

"That  is  my  old  man,"  said  Mrs.  Deams.  "He 
ain't  pretty  to  look  at,  but  he  was  a  decent  body  for  all 
that.  His  forehead  was  kind  o'  wrinkled,  and  he  had 
bronkity,  so  as  his  voice  sounded  queer  sometimes,  as 
if  it  come  out  of  a  tunnel.  And  that's  my  second,  and 
Lord  ha'  mercy  on  me  for  all  the  trouble  he  give  me  !" 

"  We  heard  you  had  to  .  .  .  er  .  .  .  ' 

Here  Mr.  Parachute  felt  called  upon  to  exhale  a  sigh. 

"I  hadn't  been  with  him  six  month,"  said  Mrs. 
Deams,  crisply,  ' '  when  up  comes  another  woman ' ' 

' '  Dear  me  !' '  said  Mr.  Parachute. 

"Yes,  sir,  that's  so  ;  and  I  a  decent  woman  who'd 
always  borne  a  good  character  and  ain't  a-going  to 


70  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

damn  her  soul  to  please  him  or  another.  '  No,'  says  I, 
'  no  other  woman  for  me,  ...  or  him.  I'm  first  an' 
last  an'  th'  only  one,  or  I'll  know  it.'  So  I  jest  turned 
him  out  and  had  him  up  for  bigam'  before  you  could 
turn  your  hand.  Yes,  sir  !  my  papers  is  square,  and 
he  locked  up  for  a  twelvemonth.  But  laws  ha'  mercy  ! 
for  all  that  he  was  a  clean  fellow,  and  nice-spoken,  and 
I  ain't  a-going  to  say  a  word  ag'in  him  behind  his  back. 
Ain't  he  a  pretty  man  ?" 

It  was  very  evident  which  of  her  two  ventures  Mrs. 
Deams  had  found  the  most  to  her  taste.  She  looked 
lovingly  at  the  face  of  her  betrayer,  and  with  a  sigh 
placed  the  two  pictures  side  by  side  in  front  of  the  clock. 
It  was  only  her  wholesome  fear  of  hell-fire  which  had 
driven  her  to  the  extreme  measure  of  a  separation. 

And  who  shall  deny  the  wholesomeness  of  fear  ?  Mrs. 
Deams  is  not  the  only  one  it  sways.  The  cultured,  the 
strong,  the  powerful,  also  tremble.  Fear  moves  the 
world,  and  it  is  well.  In  delicate  souls  it  is  that  vague 
premonition  of  loss,  of  being  shut  out,  away  from  all 
that  made  life  sweet  and  good,  that  presage  of  a  loneli- 
ness that  is  in  itself  the  doom  of  deterioration,  that 
sense  of  being  cut  off  that  wrings  tears  from  the  child 
whose  mother  refuses  to  smile.  We  all  grope  in  these 
tenebra.  Our  welfare  is  the  result  of  this  one  motor 
which  quickens  more  than  it  kills.  Even  a  woman's 
beauty  is  the  result  of  her  sacrifices.  Watch  her  at  ball 
and  supper.  This  draught  of  air  will  ruin  her  com- 
plexion :  she  avoids  it.  This  pate"  will  increase  her 
weight  :  "  No,  thank  you  !"  The  fear  of  consequences 
arrests  the  cup  at  the  man's  lips,  protects  faltering  inno- 
cence. He  who  hesitates  is  generally  .  .  .  saved.  He 
who  prates  of  virtue  for  virtue's  sake  prates — and  that 
is  all.  Why  does  man  work?  Is  it  not  in  fear  of 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  71 

poverty  and  pain  ?  or  at  best  to  ease  the  restlessness  of 
a  superfluous  energy  ?  Why  does  he  rest  ?  Is  it  not 
in  dread  of  those  lapses  of  the  brain,  that  thought  of 
its  overwrought  tension  which  whispers  to  him  of 
impending  catastrophe  ?  Fear  does  more  for  us  than 
hope.  To  the  unimaginative  joy  is  pale.  Few  have 
the  temperament  which  tastes  of  it  deeply  ;  of  the 
poignancies  of  happiness  or  of  pleasure  few  know 
aught.  But  some  measure  of  suffering  has  been  ac- 
corded to  all.  We  all  know  that — God  be  praised — 
All  hail,  then,  Our  Lady  of  Suffering  !  the  Angel  of  a 
Saint  Teresa  ! 

Violet  sitting  on  a  hard-backed  chair  began  to  think 
slumming  a  very  poor  sort  of  pastime.  She  asked 
about  Mrs.  Beams' s  rheumatism,  which  drew  forth  a 
realistic  account  of  this  lady's  diseases,  treated  with 
that  vigor  and  force  which  must  always  tend  to  diminish 
the  refinement  and  grace  of  life  ;  and  pervading  all  was 
the  odor  of  the  pig-sty !  But  Mrs.  Beams,  being 
American  born,  did  not  view  her  visitors'  call  as  a  work 
of  philanthropy.  She  insisted  on  opening  a  jar  of  her 
best  preserves  ;  she  brought  out  some  jelly-cake  for 
them,  and  thrust  a  bunch  of  honeysuckles  into  the  girl's 
hand. 

Soon  the  slummers  found  themselves  in  the  road 
again.  It  was  a  dirty  day,  spitting  rain  ;  the  road  was 
muddy,  and  they  concluded  to  put  off  their  further  evo- 
lutions until  another  morning,  for  slum  on  her  petticoat 
did  not  suit  this  daughter  of  a  New  England  mother. 
They  were  just  turning  in  at  the  gate  when  Tim,  the 
paralytic,  came  bowling  along.  He  had  been  up  to  the 
big  house  to  get  his  weekly  pension.  He  was  blatant 
as  usual,  and  as  noisy  as  a  bull-calf  at  the  sight  of  new 
victims.  He  stepped  directly  in  front  of  them. 


72  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

"  Good-mornin' ,  miss  !    Just  seen  your  ma." 

"  Good-morning,  Tim,"  blandly.     "  How  are  you?" 

"  Father's  crosser'n  cross,"  said  Tim. 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  this,  my  good  fellow,"  said  Mr. 
Parachute,  deprecatingly. 

"Well,  you  see,"  said  Tim,  with  a  one-sided  smile, 
"  he  ain't  my  father  at  all." 

"  Let  us  walk  on,"  said  Miss  Hyatt  Titus,  hurriedly, 
who  had  heard  Tim's  history  before.  "You  know  he's 
quite  silly." 

But  Mr.  Parachute  was  on  parochial  duty  bent,  and 
felt  that  this  matter  should  be  investigated.  ' '  Have 
you  an  unhappy  home,  my  good  fellow  ?' '  he  asked. 

Now,  it  was  very  rarely  that  any  one  stopped  long 
enough  by  the  wayside  to  hearken  to  poor  Tim's 
wrongs.  He  was  a  man  of  about  thirty,  with  wild  hair 
and  a  useless  hand  which  had  swung  at  his  side  for  fif- 
teen years.  He  could  just  manage  to  drag  his  limbs 
along.  He  spent  most  of  his  time  upon  the  country 
roads,  covering  during  the  week  a  number  of  miles, 
back  and  forth,  back  and  forth,  from  village  to  lake  and 
lake  to  village.  People  threw  him  a  kind  word  and 
gave  him  money  now  and  then,  but  of  listeners  he  had 
few,  and  Tim  loved  to  talk  and  talk  of  himself.  Most 
of  his  countrymen  do,  even  when  not  infesters  of  the 
highways  or  paralyzed  in  their  lower  limbs.  Americans 
strike  the  balance  of  their  unselfish  actions  by  the  arrant 
egotism  of  their  conversation. 

"You  see,"  he  now  went  on,  overjoyed  to  have  an 
audience  ;  "he  ain't  my  father  at  all." 

"He  isn't  your  father?"  asked  the  candid  rector, 
with  a  surprised  intonation.  ' '  Why  .  .  .  ' 

"Well,  he  ain't."  Tim  neared  Mr.  Parachute  and 
winked  one  of  his  bleared  eyes  with  a  painful  contrac- 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  73 

tion.  "I'm  a  come-by-chance  :  that's  what  they  calls 
me." 

He  delivered  himself  of  this  cheerful  announcement 
as  if  it  had  been  a  light  pleasantry.  Mr.  Parachute 
flushed  crimson  under  his  wide-brimmed  black  hat, 
while  his  companion  took  the  mud-puddle  at  one  leap 
and  hurried  away  under  the  dripping  boughs. 

' '  Good-by,  good-by,  my  good  fellow, ' '  said  the 
clergyman,  splashing  after  her.  "Good-by.  I'll  see 
you  another  day.  I  cannot  stop  now." 

Slumming  with  a  very  young  girl  was  distinctly  im- 
practicable. Mr.  Parachute  added  this  one  to  his  life's 
experiences.  It  is  a  pity  that  so  many  of  our  most 
useful  lessons  have  to  be  learned  in  company ! 


VII. 

MR.  HATCH  had  followed  his  flying  couple,  and  had 
finally  found  them  installed  in  what  is  called  an  up-town 
hotel.  They  were  sitting  together  on  the  marble  centre- 
table  of  their  private  drawing-room,  eating  buttered 
toast  and  drinking  lemonade  ;  upon  their  knees  was 
extended  a  map  of  the  universe,  and  they  were  plan- 
ning their  wedding  journey.  Muriel  made  one  leap  to 
the  floor  and  in  a  moment  had  fallen  upon  her  father's 
breast.  She  buried  her  pretty  face  in  his  blond  beard 
and  splashed  a  large  tear  there.  Mr.  Hatch  had  al- 
ready assured  himself  that  the  Rev.  Dr.  Prendergast 
had  tied  the  knot  irrevocably,  the  night  before,  in  the 
presence  of  two  serious  and  competent  witnesses. 

"How  could  you  so  treat  us,   my  daughter?"  he 
said,  disengaging  himself  from   her   clinging   fingers. 
' '  Have  you  ever  had  reason  to  think  your  mamma  or 
I  would  force  you  into  a  hateful  marriage  ?' ' 
D  7 


74  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

To  his  son-in-law  he  was  very  cold,  only  nodding  to 
him  distantly.  The  earl  himself  was  extremely  red  and 
sheepish. 

Muriel  hung  her  head.     "  No,  papa,"  she  said. 

"Yet  you  have  behaved  as  if  you  did.  And  you, 
sir,  how  dare  you  so  basely  repay  our  hospitality  ?  It 
was  abominable  !" 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,  I'm  sure,"  said  the  earl.  "  But 
you  see  .  .  .  ' 

"  Dear  papa,"  said  Muriel,  "  forgive  us  !  I  did  think 
it  was  so  romantic. ' ' 

Then  her  father  tried  to  look  very  savage,  but  his 
girl,  who  knew  him  well,  fancied  she  detected  a  gleam 
of  amusement  in  his  eyes,  and  the  little  imp  was  not 
slow  to  take  advantage.  An  hour  later  the  three  were 
breakfasting  together, — and  Mr.  Hatch's  appetite  was 
better  than  that  of  the  lovers. 

It  was  upon  his  return,  and  just  after  a  long  com- 
munion between  himself  and  his  wife,  when  all  had 
been  explained,  discussed,  adjusted,  accepted,  that 
Cousin  Martha  whirled  up  to  the  door  upon  her  visit 
of  condolence. 

It  was  Saturday,  and  Crummy  had  been  tortured 
into  a  clean  shirt  which  he  had  visibly  outgrown,  and 
was  standing  at  his  mother's  knees  in  the  drawing- 
room,  committing  his  Sunday-school  lesson  to  memory. 

' '  '  And  the  Lord  opened  the  mouth  of  the  ass,  and 
she  said  unto  Balaam,  What  have  I  done  unto  thee  ?'  ' 

"And  the  Lord  opened  the  ear  of  the  ass,"  repeated 
Crummy,  with  a  wandering  window-ward  eye. 

' '  My  son,  will  you  pay  attention  ?' '  said  his  mamma. 
"  If  you  do  not  you  will  have  to  be  severely  punished." 

"  And  the  Lord  said there's  a  carriage  and  pair," 

said  Crummy. 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  75 

In  a  moment  Mrs.  Hyatt  Titus  had  crossed  the 
threshold.  ' '  How  are  you,  Mary  ?  How  do  you  do, 
Crumbar  ?' ' 

"Thank  you,  I  am  pretty  well,"  said  Crumbar, 
delighted  with  the  interruption.  Then  he  took  the 
opportunity  of  delivering  himself  of  what  was  upper- 
most in  his  mind. 

"Sister  Muriel's  skipped  off  with  the  Englishman," 
he  said. 

Cousin  Martha  closed  her  eyes  and  opened  them 
again  very  slowly.  She  looked  significantly  at  Mrs. 
Hatch,  as  much  as  to  say,  "Shall  you  not  send  this 
child  away,  or  at  least  reprove  him  ?' ' 

But  Mrs.  Hatch  was  one  of  those  women  who  rarely 
respond  to  expectation.  She  aggravatingly  did  neither. 

She  did  release  him,  however,  from  his  lesson,  and 
he  found  his  way  to  the  window,  where  he  amused  him- 
self killing  mosquitoes,  enlivening  this  ferocious  occu- 
pation with  frequent  war-whoops  of  triumph. 

"Your  daughter's  misconduct  ..."  began  Mrs. 
Hyatt  Titus 

"We  will  not  talk  of  it,  please,"  said  Mrs.  Hatch, 
rather  sharply. 

' '  I  am  glad,  dear  Mary,  that  you  can  dismiss  it. 
There  are  people  who  rally  more  quickly  than  others 
from  such  blows." 

"  I  don't  think  I  understand  you,"  said  Mrs.  Hatch. 

"A  marriage  begun  under  such  auspices  seems  to 
have  so  little  promise  of  solidity, — is  such  a  poor  prepa- 
ration to  the  wife  and  mother.  Where  principle  does 
not  enter  into  a  tie  which  is  the  most  sacred  .  .  .  ' 

"Oh,  fol  de  rol !"  said  Mrs.  Hatch. 

"Why!  why!  Mary!" 

"I  say  ' fol  de  rol !'  "  said  Mrs.  Hatch.     " To  be  a 


76  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT. 

wife  and  mother  is  all  very  well ;  but  one  must  be  one's 
self  first." 

' '  Oh,  of  course,  if  you  can  joke  about  it  I  have 
nothing  further  to  say.  We  have  felt  the  deepest  sym- 
pathy, but  I  imagine  it  is  misplaced." 

"  Who  is  joking  ?  Any  one  would  suppose,  from  the 
way  you  talk,  that  our  Muriel  was  a  lost  girl.  She  has 
some  individuality,  that  is  true." 

Cousin  Martha  again  closed  her  eyes.  It  seemed  this 
time  as  if  her  lids  would  never  rise  again. 

"I  heard  that  Dr.  Prendergast, — of  course  I  had 
heard  that Dear  me,  Mary  !  how  shocking  !" 

' '  What  is  so  shocking  ?' ' 

1 '  Why,  why,  the  things  you  accuse  me  of,  and  your 
ideas  of  marriage  too.  I  must  say,  Mary,  you  and  I 
don't  agree  on  these  matters." 

4 '  It  is  not  necessary  that  we  should." 

"  These  Englishmen  are  so  fond  of  sport,  of  pleasures 
in  which  a  truly  feminine  woman  cannot  join." 

' '  Fond  of  pleasure  ?  Well,  if  he  wants  pleasure  I 
hope  my  son-in-law  will  get  it.  There's  nothing  so 
good  for  the  digestion. ' ' 

' '  You  laugh  at  everything.  To  me  there  is  nothing 
more  beautiful  than  a  union  entered  into  with  proper 
seriousness  :  two  persons  going  down  the  hill  of  life 
together,  with  mutual  interests,  hand  in  hand  .  .  .  ' 

"Really!  To  me  married  middle  life  always  looks 
a  little  bit  bleak.  I  tell  Hatch  it  is  almost  time  we  were 
not  seen  so  much  together.  He  is  always  for  hanging 
to  my  skirts.  When  one  begins  to  roll  down  a  hill, 
don't  you  think,  Martha,  it's  better  to  take  opposite 
sides?  It  gives  one  more  breathing-space." 

The  lady  addressed  pursed  her  lip.  ' '  Oh,  of  course, 
if  you  refuse  to  be  in  earnest  ..." 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  77 

' '  Never  was  more  so  in  my  life.  I  am  thinking  of 
dividing  the  children  into  parts  and  making  Hatch  a 
present  of  the  half  of  them.  I'll  take  the  little  ones. 
They're  less  trouble  for  an  old  woman.  What  does  a 
man  want  an  ugly  old  woman  about  for  ?' ' 

"What's  this  you  are  discussing?"  inquired  Mr. 
Hatch,  looming  in. 

He  came  over  and  kissed  his  wife's  fingers.  "  Take 
her  away,"  she  managed  to  whisper  to  him. 

Mr.  Hatch  contrived  to  patch  up  some  kind  of  a 
truce.  He  suggested  that  they  should  adjourn  under 
the  trees.  The  tea  was  there  already  getting  cold. 
May-Margaret  perched  upon  the  wall,  and  by  her  side 
sat  Mr.  Parachute.  The  blue  evening  was  in  her  hair, 
paling  its  gold  ;  her  features  had  taken  on  tints  milky 
as  alabaster.  Under  her  feet  was  the  lapping  water. 
The  wavelets  shimmered  limpidly  through  their  mosses' 
fringe  of  tangled  verdure,  like  gentle  eyes  beneath 
trembling  lashes.  They  made  a  delicious  symphony, 
soft  as  a  refrain  of  the  langue  d'  Oyl : 

Ceste  est  la  belle  Aliz  ; 

Ceste  est  la  flur,  ceste  est  le  lis. 

May-Margaret  was  devouring  a  piece  of  cake,  eating 
as  prettily  as  Madame  Eglantine.  A  bird  overhead 
was  executing  a  foolish  trill  in  the  flame  of  the  dying 
day.  A  last  sun-ray  fell  on  the  girl's  forehead  ;  the 
night  lay  beneath  her  eyelids.  Her  breath  was  as  sweet 
as  the  spring  woods.  She  was  a  beautiful  pagan  image 
of  health  and  youth,  one  of  those  maidens  who,  one 
felt,  might  develop  into  a  woman  of  exquisite  caresses 
and  redoubtable  angers. 

The  Hatch  girls  were  not  "plain  sailing."  This 
was  positive.  It  was  borne  in  upon  the  young  priest 

7* 


78  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

thirsting  for  sacrifice,  for  ascetic  renunciation,  for  great 
and  transcendent  aims,  upon  his  fervent  soul  whose 
only  bride  should  have  been  the  altar.  Yet  this  mys- 
tery of  feminine  loveliness — was  it  forever  to  remain 
a  mystery  to  him?  Should  he  never  quaff  it,  make 
it  his  ? — never  ?  never  ?  There  stirred  within  him  that 
vague  longing  to  taste  of  that  double  existence,  of 
that  new  thing,  so  full  of  doubts,  of  dangers,  of  sus- 
picions, yet  also  of  ineffable  sweetness  and  pardons. 
Yet  he  would  not  for  the  world  have  touched  her 
hand. 

And  that  other  maiden,  pretty  but  prim,  who  had 
' '  slummed' '  with  him,  had  awakened  not  one  of  these 
dreams  and  these  fantasies.  When  she  had  left  him  he 
had  been  cold  :  why  ?  May-Margaret  sitting  on  her 
stone  wall,  eating  her  cake,  and  declaring  that  she  hated 
slumming  and  never  went  into  the  poor  man's  cot, 
seemed  to  him  far  more  alluring. 

Having  finished  her  cake,  she  fell  again  to  pulling 
Layamon's  tail,  which  seemed  her  favorite  pastime  of  a 
summer's  afternoon,  but  she  did  it  with  so  much  vivacity 
and  elegance  that  the  young  clergyman  was  convinced 
that  even  a  dog's  tail  might  be  pulled  to  some  purpose. 

Mr.  Hatch,  under  the  influence  of  his  tea,  was  dis- 
coursing genially:  "Of  course  high  virtues  are  the 
most  natural  sources  of  our  admiration.  Yet  all  gran- 
deur arrests  us.  The  splendid  conqueror,  even  the 
daring  conspirator,  of  whom  we  do  not  approve,  charms 
and  holds  our  imagination.  What  one  reveres  is  force, 
contempt  of  public  opinion,  of  selfish  interest,  of  danger, 
of  death." 

Here  Crummy  and  a  large  boulder  became  detached 
from  the  top  of  the  wall  and  fell  twelve  feet  into  the 
water.  There  was  a  cataclysm.  Crummy  yelled,  strug- 


THE   FIRST  FLIGHT  79 

gled,  righted  himself,  and  was  extricated  by  Mr.  Para- 
chute, with  the  aid  of  an  opportune  fish-pole.  He 
came  up  riding  the  pole  with  a  hurrah,  covered  with 
black  mud-slime,  and  had  to  be  immediately  banished, 
not  before,  however,  he  had  enthusiastically  kissed  his 
mother's  cheek  and  left  his  mark  upon  its  edge.  He 
left  his  mark,  indeed,  all  the  way  up  the  stairs. 

"What  appeals  to  the  imagination,"  said  Mr.  Para- 
chute, ' '  is,  of  course,  not  only  beauty  and  grandeur  in 
action,  but  all  novelty." 

"  I  care  not  for  feature,  I'm  sure  to  discover 

Some  exquisite  trait  in  each  new  one  you  send ; 
But  the  fondness  wears  off  as  the  novelty's  over : 
I  want  a  new  face  for  an  intimate  friend," 

hummed  May-Margaret. 

"Ah  !  strength  !  strength  !  That's  what  one  craves 
now  in  art,  in  literature, ' '  continued  Mr.  Hatch,  follow- 
ing his  train  of  thought, — "another  cup  of  tea,  dearest, 
— that  is  what  the  world  asks  to-day  !  And  the  public 
is,  after  all,  the  supreme  judge  to  which  our  last  plea 
must  be  taken." 

"Surely  the  public  itself  is  often  very  perverted," 
ventured  Mrs.  Titus. 

"  The  public  has  a  lot  of  common  sense,"  said  Mrs. 
Hatch,  ' '  and  that  must  always  be  applied  to  a  judgment 
even  of  the  arts.  When  I  say  the  public  I  mean  the 
intelligent  people  :  I  don' t  mean  the  mob  which  howls 
and  pelts  what  it  cannot  understand. ' ' 

' '  But  surely  their  taste  must  be  elevated,  educated  ?' ' 

"I  don't  know.  Yes,  perhaps,  but  not  too  highly. 
The  hypercritical  are  so  tiresome.  You  talk  of  strength, 
dear,"  said  Mrs.  Hatch,  turning  to  her  husband,  "but 
strength  of  fist,  which  used  to  make  a  reputation  for 


80  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

chivalry,  methinks  nowadays  would  only  lead  a  man  to 
the  gallows." 

"What  do  you  call  taste,  Mr.  Hatch?"  asked  Mr. 
Parachute. 

' '  Why,  of  course,  the  power  of  judgment.  Genius 
alone  executes.  How  few  have  either  !  To  touch  the 
heart ;  that  is  alone  the  secret  of  the  applause  of  a  large 
public.  There  is  nothing  like  the  crude  but  vivifying 
efflux  of  the  multitude.  I  call  it  the  essence  of  human- 
ity. I  like  that  large  heartiness  whose  savor  we  breathe 
only  in  the  crowd." 

"Yes,"  murmured  Mrs.  Hatch,  "that  is  the  secret 
which  pleases  all  ages  :  kinship  of  the  heart." 

The  clergyman's  confused  revery  kept  up  its  under- 
current through  the  superficial  converse.  It  struck  a 
diapason  whose  tones  and  semi-tones  were  full  of  puz- 
zling thoughts,  arresting  problems, — and  May-Margaret 
so  sweetly  near ! 

"And  to  think,"  mused  Cousin  Martha,  "that  I 
came  here  to  condole  with  these  people  !" 

She  got  herself  up  at  last,  humiliated  .  .  .  for  them. 
Frivolous  they  were,  disgustingly  so.  As  to  Mr.  Para- 
chute, she  would  not  have  believed  him  capable  of  such 
reprehensible  waste  of  time,  had  she  not  seen  it  with 
her  own  eyes.  Driving  away,  she  felt  half  inclined  to 
go  back  and  warn  him.  Of  what?  And  here  her 
horses  shied,  and  so  she  did  not  formulate  her  counsel. 

He  watched  the  retreating  wheels  and  the  flying 
leaves  behind  them,  and  almost  wished  that  he  might 
follow  them  into  their  exile  of  safety. 

There  was  something  pathetic  about  his  black  figure 
against  the  twilight.  May-Margaret  knew  that  he  was 
a  lonely  fellow.  He  had  lately  lost  his  mother.  He 
had  no  one  to  care  for  him,  no  one.  He  had  been  telling 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  8 1 

her  about  it  before  the  others  came,  and  she  had  fallen 
somehow  to  pitying  him.  Pity  !  Divine  sister  of 
Love,  which  no  soul  knoweth  that  cannot  also  love  and 
console  ! 

VIII. 

MRS.  LARREMORE  sat  in  her  boudoir  the  following 
winter  with  her  feet  towards  the  andirons,  her  eyes  on  her 
own  fair  reflection  in  a  low  mirror  opposite.  She  wore 
a  garment  of  pale  satin,  bound  about  the  hips  like  a 
touloupe,  and  opening  upon  floods  of  light  palpitant 
laces.  She  held  in  her  hand  a  sheet  of  paper  and  a 
pencil.  Near  her,  in  voiceless  and  contemplative  ec- 
stasy, sat  a  young  woman  to  whom  she  had  lately  ac- 
corded her  friendship  and  patronage,  and  whose  present 
extreme  happiness  may  have  sprung  from  the  insecurity 
of  Mrs.  Larremore' s  affections.  So  insecure  did  she 
feel,  indeed,  that  her  very  laughter  had  as  it  were  the 
humidity  of  a  tear  in  it.  For  who  knew  at  what  turn 
of  Fortune's  wheel  this  lady's  fickle  fancy  might  play 
her  new  friend  a  trick  and  hurl  her  back  into  oblivion  ? 
Mrs.  Larremore  had  called  in  young  Mrs.  Crawford  to 
assist  her  in  making  a  list  for  an  impending  "function." 
It  is  needless  to  explain  that  Mrs.  Crawford  was  a  social 
aspirant. 

Mrs.  Larremore  was  herself  five — nay,  let  us  be  gen- 
erous and  say  eight  years  old.  Eight  years  ago  she 
had  herself  been  very  "new,"  but  she  was  a  precocious 
child  and  made  strides  with  phenomenal  rapidity.  Her 
one  day  had  been,  as  it  were,  the  Biblical  thousand 
years.  She  was  very  handsome,  well  dressed,  extremely 
amusing,  fairly  good-natured,  and  had  cart-loads  of 
money.  She  was  not  distinguished,  but,  as  she  herself 
would  have  asked,  who  is  ?  The  number  to  which  this 


82  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

descriptive  adjective  may  be  applied  does  not,  in  fact, 
multiply  and  cover  the  earth.  Mrs.  Larremore,  never- 
theless, had  a  keen  appreciation  of  distinguished  people 
and  their  desirability,  and  managed  to  gather  such  as 
were  feasible  and  possible  at  her  house.  Unlike  the 
generality  of  persons  who  have  risen,  she  was  genial 
rather  than  snobbish,  and  had  no  especial  desire  to  push 
and  kick  down  those  who  were  making  their  very  pain- 
ful and  breathless  ascent, — that  ascent  upon  the  upper 
rung  where  she  sat  so  proudly  secure.  That  she  had 
"arrived,"  not  even  her  most  malignant  detractors 
could  deny. 

To-day  she  had  sent  for  little  Mrs.  Crawford,  first  be- 
cause she  lived  near  her  and  was  easily  get-at-able,  and 
secondly  because  she  liked  her.  It  was  possibly  one  of 
the  secrets  of  her  success  that  she  had  dared  to  have 
preferences  ;  and  now  that  she  could  impose  upon  and 
impress  others  it  insured  a  certain  solidity  to  her  own 
position.  There  is  a  degree  of  suppleness  which  must 
be  deprecated  in  vertebrated  animals.  With  all  Mrs. 
Larremore's  faults, — and  she  had  a  colossal  share, — she 
had  a  streak  of  stubborn  honesty.  She  had  been  too 
honest  to  discard  all  of  her  old  friends,  and  had  actually 
pulled  one  or  two  up  after  her.  Of  course  these  had 
been  such  as  would  and  did  help  themselves.  ' '  Lumps' ' 
and  ' '  frumps' '  who  would  not  lend  themselves  to  being 
assisted  had  of  course  to  be  left  to  their  fate.  If  people 
prefer  to  wallow  they  must  be  left  to  their  wallowing. 
Mrs.  Larremore's  shoulders  were  strong,  but  she  could 
not  carry  the  whole  world  on  them.  On  the  whole,  she 
had  been  amiable. 

Mrs.  Larremore  generally  had  a  mild  love-affair — 
it  were  better  to  call  it  a  robust  flirtation — in  progress, 
and  during  the  process  of  this  personal  enchantment, 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  83 

which  absorbed  a  certain  amount  of  her  superabundant 
vitality,  she  was  apt  to  be  peculiarly  kindly.  She  even 
drove  out  an  ugly  girl  or  two  in  her  victoria  or  her 
sleigh,  and  had  once  been  known  to  ask  a  country 
clergyman's  widow  to  dinner.  These  heart-affairs,  as 
she  grew  older,  were  more  violent  at  the  commence- 
ment, but  less  sustained.  After  thirty  the  emotions 
are  far  stronger  than  in  youth,  but  less  patient.  There 
is  not  the  time.  In  fact,  when  her  new  admirer,  who- 
ever he  might  be,  had  seen  her  in  her  charming  house 
at  its  best,  found  her  reclining  in  an  attitude  of  studied 
discomfort  under  a  rose-bush  by  a  shaded  lamp  in 
her  dim  drawing-room,  after  she  had  dazzled  him  in 
most  of  her  gowns,  after  he  had  leaned  over  her  white 
shoulder  at  the  opera  or  held  her  hand  a  moment  in 
the  cold,  unmagnetic  contact  of  the  dance,  she  gen- 
erally grew  very  tired  of  him,  and  liked  him  only  when 
others  were  present.  Nothing  is  so  distressing  as  a 
t$te-d-t£te  in  which  there  lingers  the  vague  promise 
of  a  tenderness  whose  claims  shall  remain  forever  un- 
fulfilled. 

At  such  times,  as  I  have  said,  she  was  good-natured. 
Probably  on  the  whole  she  was  not  much  worse  than 
her  neighbors,  and  there  was  no  great  harm  in  her. 
When  she  was  disengaged,  however,  from  all  heart- 
entanglements  she  was  apt  to  be  rather  cross.  Fortu- 
nately for  her  husband  and  her  children,  the  occasions 
had  been  rare.  Her  husband,  who  was  never  cross, 
adored  her,  in  his  way, — an  adoration  without  jealousy 
and  without  reproach,  mild,  possible,  and  lenient.  He 
was  a  clever  man  of  business,  and  was  very  fond  of 
sport,  to  which  he  was  addicted — within  limits.  He 
was  reputed  to  be  indifferent  to  all  women  except  his 
wife,  his  two  passions  being  his  business  career  and 


84  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

fishing.  He  angled  for  trout,  and  she  for  men.  The 
difference,  after  all,  is  insignificant.  Both  fish  are  easy 
to  kill  when  one  has  time. 

Of  Mrs.  Crawford  it  may  be  said  that  she  was  one  of 
those  young  married  women  whom  other  women  call 
"sweet."  This  means  a  person  devoid  of  all  dazzling 
allurement  either  of  mind  or  of  person, — an  immense 
advantage  in  the  social  struggle.  To  rouse  no  rivalries 
is  to  be  acceptable.  She  had  a  splendid  ball-room,  just 
re-decorated  for  the  fourth  time.  Mr.  Crawford,  a  little 
thin  man  with  a  head  the  size  of  a  fall  pippin  and  with 
a  chronic  cold  in  it, — owing  perhaps  to  the  fact  that  the 
painters  were  always  in  his  house,  and  the  windows 
wide  open, — had  a  great  desire  to  assist  her  in  piping, 
if  only  dancers  could  be  forthcoming  ;  nay,  they  were 
both  delirious  pipers ;  and  yet  so  far  there  had  been 
but  scant  waltzing  to  their  music.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Craw- 
ford lacked  a  certain  amount  of  push  and  social  talent 
to  meet  the  exigencies  of  their  situation.  Mrs.  Larre- 
more  had  decided  that  she  must  herself  give  out  from 
her  overflowing  cruse  into  her  neighbors'  empty  cup. 
Their  advantages  made  it  worth  while.  Now  the  two 
ladies  were  engaged  in  making  a  list  for  a  ball. 

"They  are  of  an  excellent  family,"  said  Mrs.  Craw- 
ford, whose  leisure  moments  for  the  last  two  years  had 
been  passed  in  studying  genealogies. 

' '  Bosh  !     Fiddle-faddle  !     Who  cares  for  family  ?' ' 

"I  thought  ..." 

' '  My  dear,  you  are  not  called  upon  to  think.  I 
know.  Trust  me." 

' '  Mrs.  Lawrence  told  me  Mrs.  Hyatt  Titus  was  very 
well  born  .  .  .  ' 

"  She's  a  horrid  bore  :  that's  what  she  is  ;  and  so  is 
the  old  man.  But  the  girl's  nice-looking ;  therefore, 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  85 

here  goes  !  Besides,  she's  a  cousin  to  Lady  Brownlow, 
and  Muriel's  the  rage." 

"Ah  !  Lady  Brownlow, — is  she  here?" 

"Yes,  just  on  the  wing.  They  sail  the  next  day. 
Have  you  met  her?" 

' '  No.     I  passed  her  in  driving. ' ' 

"  My  dear,  you  must  do  more  than  that.  That  won't 
suffice.  She  would  help  you  immensely  in  London 
next  spring  ;  and  then  '  Brownie'  is  such  a  dear  !' ' 

Mrs.  Crawford's  eyes  sparkled  with  excitement.  Her 
gloved  fingers  closed  convulsively  over  her  little 
thumbs. 

"  What  can  I  do  ?     Could  I  leave  a  card  ?" 

"We'll  go  there,  if  you  like,  this  afternoon.  She's 
stopping  at  the  Lawrences'.  She's  very  nice,"  said 
Mrs.  Larremore,  nonchalantly. 

"  How  lovely  you  are,  and  kind  to  me  !    Why  is  it?" 

"I  like  you." 

"  I  wonder  why  !" 

"You  are  not  aggressive." 

"  I  have  sometimes  thought  that  was  my  misfortune." 

' '  It  is,  in  a  way. ' ' 

"I  can't  fight." 

"Yes,  I  know.  It's  slower,  but  I've  sometimes 
thought  in  the  end  it  was  safer.  It's  so  easy  to  come 
down,  to  get  a  cropper." 

"  I  wouldn't  like  to  come  down." 

"Well,  my  dear,  I'll  attend  to  that.  But  the  fact  is 
you  must  go  up  first.  I  like  you  because  you  never 
interfere  with  my  methods.  A  cleverer  woman  must 
always  have  her  say,  her  opinions,  her  ideas,  and  spoils 
everything  by  insisting  on  having  her  finger  in  her  own 
pie.  In  a  handsomer  one  vanity  is  always  on  the  alert ; 
takes  umbrage  and  offence  at  nothing  ;  has  to  be  fussed 

8 


86  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

over  and  coddled  at  every  turn.  It  is  complicating, 
exasperating,  and  tiresome.  You're  sweet,  and  that's 
just  what  we  want. ' ' 

Mrs.  Crawford  accepted  Mrs.  Larremore's  frankness 
without  wincing.  In  these  stormy  crises  of  fate  trifles 
are  put  aside  ;  there  is  no  use  in  grimacing. 

"Of  course  you'll  wear  white,"  said  Cousin  Martha 
to  her  debutante, — they  were  now  settled  in  their  city 
home  for  the  winter, — "white,  with  clover-blossoms  ; 
that  has  always  been  my  idea  for  a  first  party.  I  hope, 
my  child,  you  will  not  allow  the  atmosphere  of  worldly 
pleasure  and  emulation  to  turn  your  head  or  enervate 
your  intellect." 

"I  hope  not,  mamma." 

' '  I  did  not  much  fancy  that  Mrs.  Larremore.  Her 
influence  might  be,  I  think,  a  pernicious  one  upon 
very  young  people.  Your  papa  considers  her  intelli- 
gent ..." 

"She  does  not  take  the  trouble  to  be  pernicious. 
She's  thinking  of  herself." 

"Of  her  husband  and  her  children,  I  hope,  and  of 
making  their  home  happy." 

Her  daughter  laughed,  but  said  nothing.  She  had 
given  up  explaining  things  to  her  mamma ;  she  was 
dimly  beginning  to  unravel  them  for  herself.  It  is  a 
curious  experience  when  a  child  first  perceives  the 
feebleness  of  perception  or  judgment  in  a  parent. 

The  drive  to  the  ball  was  somewhat  constrained.  Mr. 
Hyatt  Titus' s  lavender  gloves  and  white  choker  seemed 
too  much  for  his  content.  Mrs.  Hyatt  Titus  had  dis- 
covered at  the  last  moment,  to  her  great  dismay,  that 
the  body  of  her  gown  was  .  .  .  immodest.  Five  layers 
torn  hurriedly  from  a  white  lace  flounce  had  been  care- 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  87 

fully  pushed  in  and  pinned  across  a  bust  upon  which  no 
evil  eye  should  peer  with  wicked  intent.  Her  heels 
were  higher  than  she  usually  wore,  and  she  had  stood 
about  upon  them  so  long  during  this  readjustment,  this 
tribute  laid  upon  the  altar  of  long-proved  and  spotless 
conduct,  that  she  had  a  cramp  in  her  left  foot  which 
caused  her  now  and  then  to  emit  a  muffled  cry  of 
agony. 

The  younger  aspirant  to  social  preferment  was  so 
agitated  that  a  nervous  irritability  possessed  her.  She 
was  thinking  of  her  coming  triumphs,  which  seemed  to 
render  peculiarly  tame  the  progress  of  the  carriage 
through  the  slippery  streets.  A  frantic  unrest  filled 
her. 

"  Promise  me,"  said  her  mother,  "that  you  will  not 
dance  every  dance.  Your  cousin  Mary,  who  was  very 
foolish  when  she  was  young,  once  contracted  a  bad 
congestion  from  overheating  herself  in  this  way  and 
then  standing  near  a  window." 

"  Oh,  let  her  dance,"  said  the  father.  "Why,  bless 
me,  didn't  you  go  to  dancing-school,  my  dear?" 

' '  Perhaps  no  one  will  ask  me, ' '  said  Miss  Highty 
Tighty,  coyly,  trying  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  herself  in 
the  square  of  the  window-pane.  "  Cousin  Mary  said  I 
ought  to  have  been  presented  at  home  first." 

"Mrs.  Larremore  will,  of  course,  attend  to  the 
young  girls  getting  partners,"  said  this  unsophisticated 
mother,  "  and  your  dress  is  most  becoming." 

The  dressing-room  presented  to  our  ladies  a  sea  of 
faces  which  were  principally  strange  ones.  Miss  Hyatt 
Titus' s  gown  seemed  somehow  suddenly  to  shrink  upon 
her,  to  become  a  little  too  scant  in  the  back,  and  her 
mother  noticed  in  sudden  alarm  that  there  was  a  sad 
crease  in  the  sash-ribbon.  It  was,  nevertheless,  fresh 


88  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

and  pretty,  and  she  looked  charming.  So  said  Lady 
Brownlow  to  her  an  hour  later  as  she  swept  past  the 
trio,  whose  fear  of  being  overheated  seemed  to  have 
been  effectually  chilled. 

They  were  huddled  together  in  one  of  the  door-ways 
when  Lady  Brownlow  passed,  herself  a  radiant  vision, 
with  a  rose  at  her  girdle  and  a  diamond  star  in  her  hair. 
She  was  gentleness  itself  to  her  cousins,  bending  for  a 
moment  from  out  the  rich  prestige  of  her  own  effulgent 
glory,  without  one  shade  of  superiority  in  either  her 
manner  or  her  speech.  She  was  full  of  life's  new  wine, 
bubbling  over  in  graciousness. 

She  found  her  little  cousin  laughing  a  great  deal  in  a 
sort  of  forced  way,  looking  about  her  tremblingly  as 
she  detained  a  youth  very  young,  very  slender,  and 
with  a  muddy  complexion,  by  a  hand  slipped  through 
his  crooked  arm-sleeve.  His  mere  presence  seemed  to 
have  galvanized  the  girl  into  a  febrile  gayety.  He  was, 
in  fact,  her  first  partner.  She  was  beginning  to  fear 
that  he  would  be  the  last.  At  the  moment  Lady  Brown- 
low  addressed  her  she  was  trying  to  induce  him  to  offer 
his  services  for  supper.  There  was  a  distant  murmur 
that  this  terrible  ordeal  was  at  hand.  The  cotillon  was 
to  follow,  and  our  little  debutante  was  not  engaged  for 
either.  She  did  at  last  persuade  her  youth  to  take  her 
down.  They  joined  her  father  and  mother  and  a  liter- 
ary couple,  a  certain  Mr.  Pickabone  and  his  wife,  a  man 
and  woman  distinguished  from  the  environing  crowd  by 
a  strange  unfitness  in  the  matter  of  costume.  The  gen- 
tleman's hair  was  long  and  the  lady's  short.  Mrs. 
Pickabone  wore  a  scant  sky-blue  brocade  cut  high  over 
the  shoulders,  but  whose  V-shaped  aperture  was  zig- 
zagged by  ten  yards  of  ascending  cotton  laces.  A 
safety-pin  held  these  across  a  defiant  collar-bone  as  if 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  89 

to  defend  a  siege  ;  while  a  large  bunch  of  natural  smilax 
served  as  an  abatis.  Around  her  thin,  dark  throat, 
which  had  the  look  of  a  moulting  parrot's,  was  fastened 
a  necklace  of  cockle-shells  set  in  silver. 

In  the  general  mttlee  poor  Mr.  Titus  carried  in  this 
gaunt  lady,  while  his  wife  brought  up  the  rear  with  the 
author,  her  husband.  They  found  a  table  behind  a 
door,  and  here  were  served  to  them  the  same  delicate 
viands  and  wines  which  the  more  fortunate  were  con- 
suming. 

"John  Salisbury's  chief  work,  my  dear,"  said  the 
litterateur ;  helping  his  wife  to  a  glass  of  claret,  "  is  a 
treatise,  in  eight  books,  on  the  frivolities  of  courtiers 
and  the  footsteps  of  philosophers.  This  scene  and  its 
heterogeneous  assemblage  remind  me  of  the  interesting 
medley  I  was  perusing  this  morning.  Here  we  meet 
all, — all  in  one." 

1 '  Who  are  those  guys  ?' '  whispered  Mrs.  Larremore 
as  she  passed  in,  upon  a  distinguished  foreigner's  arm, 
among  her  guests. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  replied  Mr.  Larremore. 
"  How  on  earth  can  I  tell?  I  didn't  see  your  list.  I 
don't  know  half  the  people  here." 

' '  Oh,  I  remember  now.  It  must  be  the  man  the 
Gallaways  asked  for ;  that  man  who  lived  in  Samoa, 
and  writes  about  it.  I  had  to  send  them  a  card  to  please 
Aunt  Kate.  Who  would  imagine  the  wife  would  come 
too?  She's  quite  dreadful.  That's  all  one  gets  for 
being  unselfish." 

The  advent  of  a  fair  divorcee,  whom  she  knew  by 
sight,  at  an  adjoining  table  caused  the  Samoan  lady  to 
break  forth  in  lamentations  at  the  present  looseness  of 
the  marriage  tie. 

"  Marriage  is  the  force,  the  order,  of  life, — its  health 
8* 


90  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

and  dignity.  What,  will  you  tell  me,  are  we  coming 
to,  if  men  are  to  be  so  easily  released  from  their  obliga- 
tions?" she  said,  shaking  her  head  until  the  smilax  and 
cockle-shells  trembled. 

"I,"  said  the  Samoan,  "  I,  for  one,  am  of  IngersolFs 
way  of  thinking.  I  would  make  our  divorce  laws  even 
easier  than  they  are.  Old  prejudices  must  not  paralyze 
progress — Terrapin,  my  love? — Now,  in  Samoa,  Mr. 
Hyatt  Titus,  you  have  no  idea  what  strange  views  they 
hold  about  marriage."  And  he  went  on  with  great 
prolixity  giving  these  views,  which  were  certainly  as- 
tounding. 

Miss  Hyatt  Titus  passed  the  hour  of  the  cotillon  in 
the  dressing-room.  When  her  mother  came  later  to 
her  bedchamber  to  assist  her  in  disrobing,  she  found 
the  little  girl  lying  sobbing  on  the  floor,  whose  hardness 
was  not  more  cruel  than  that  of  the  world  which  had 
ignored  her.  She  rolled  over  and  looked  up  at  her 
mother's  frightened  face. 

"Why  didn't  you  know,"  she  said,  angrily,  "what 
I  had  to  expect,  mamma?  Older  people  ought  to 
know  about  these  things.  I  never  danced  once  ;  and 
then  to  sup  with  those  queer,  horrid-looking  people  ! 
It  was  too  humiliating !  As  to  Mrs.  Larremore,  she 
never  noticed  my  existence." 

Poor  Mrs.  H.  T.  wrung  her  hands,  feeling  for  the 
first  time  that  the  duties  of  a  wife  and  mother  were 
greater  than  she  could  perform. 

"That  pretty  girl  from  the  lake  seemed  to  have 
rather  a  heavy  time,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Larremore  to 
his  wife. 

Their  splendid  rooms  presented  the  curious  appear- 
ance of  a  wind-swept  desert  which  follows  the  last  steps 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  91 

rX 

of  departing  guests.  The  candles  hugged  their  sockets, 
now  and  then  giving  forth  a  snapping  sound  when  a 
lump  of  falling  wax  dropped  to  the  parquet  floor.  This 
was  strewn  here  and  there  with  straggling  debris  of 
tulle,  the  wrenched-off  bit  of  a  lace  balayeuse,  a  scrap 
of  gauze  from  the  blue  or  rosy  cloud  which  had  en- 
veloped some  dancing  nymph.  The  flowers  drooped 
from  mantels  and  chandeliers,  giving  forth  an  almost 
sickly  odor  from  their  hot,  crushed  petals.  The  potted 
plants,  stronger  to  resist  the  demands  of  an  exhausted 
atmosphere,  stood  out  dank  and  dark  against  the  light 
green  of  damask  panellings.  Through  the  loopings  of 
a  dozen  portieres  could  be  seen  now  and  then  the 
aproned  form  of  one  of  the  under-men  hurrying  to  un- 
charge  the  rich  banqueting-table  in  the  distant  dining- 
room  of  its  salads,  wines,  and  fruits. 

The  click  of  the  rattling  glasses  or  the  crack  of  a 
dropped  plate,  accompanied  by  the  rather  thickly  uttered 
anathema  of  the  head  butler, — whom  copious  draughts 
of  champagne  had  rendered  peculiarly  unrelenting, — 
came  muffled  through  the  heavy  curtains.  In  the 
overhanging  gallery  the  sleepy  musicians  were  putting 
their  instruments  to  bed  in  pantalettes  and  shirts  of 
chamois  leather,  and  the  occasional  squeak  of  a  recal- 
citrant fiddle  struck  back  sharply  on  the  silence  of  the 
empty  halls.  Their  dark  bearded  faces  peered  down 
through  the  white  and  gold  balustrade  at  the  master 
and  mistress  of  the  mansion,  who  were  flitting  about  in 
broadcloth  and  satin,  with  that  restless  sleeplessness  of 
the  host  and  hostess  after  a  crowded  and  successful  en- 
tertainment. 

Mrs.  Arthur  Crawford  stopped  at  the  door,  half-hidden 
in  her  voluminous  fawn-colored  plush  coat,  from  whose 
fox-furs  emerged  her  fair  head  and  white  throat,  like  a 


92  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

Dresden-china  umbrella-handle.  She  lingered  for  a 
moment  to  say  good-by  on  the  stairs  to  a  long-necked, 
faded  dude  who  was  flitting  before  her,  in  a  vain  search 
for  his  fur-lined  coat  and  silk  neck-scarf,  which  some 
other  gentleman  had  carried  off,  leaving  in  their  stead 
a  pair  of  soiled  galoshes  and  a  torn  handkerchief. 

' '  What  girl,  from  what  lake  ?' '  Mrs.  Larremore  was 
asking  her  husband,  standing  before  a  Louis  XVI. 
mirror,  and  arranging  her  pearl  coronet,  which  had 
fallen  a  little  awry. 

' '  Why,  that  girl  from  the  lake — pshaw  !  you  know. 
I  think  you  should  have  done  something  for  her." 

' '  Oh,  her  mother  ought  to  have  introduced  her 
properly,"  said  little  Mrs.  Crawford  at  the  door- way, 
' '  before  she  ventured  into  the  big  world.  I  know  from 
my  own  experience  how  cruel  and  cold  it  can  be. ' '  She 
could  afford  to  be  frank  now,  her  own  evening  having 
been  a  wild  success. 

"  What  do  you  think  I  ought  to  have  done,  Larrie?" 

"  Introduced  some  men  to  her." 

"My  dear,  you  can  bring  horses  to  the  trough,  but 
you  cannot  make  them  drink.  That  girl  is  doomed 
socially.  I  knew  it  from  the  first.  I  knew  it  would  be 
futile,  so  I  just  gave  it  up." 

' '  She  is  mighty  good-looking, ' '  said  Mr.  Larremore. 

' '  Yes,  at  home,  in  the  morning,  in  the  country.  Not 
in  a  ball-room.  She  makes  no  effect ;  and  then  she 
has  no  magnetism." 

"  How  can  you  tell  ?" 

' '  I  can  see  it  in  a  woman  two  blocks  off,  when  she  is 
going  along  the  street.  I  take  a  man's  view." 

"Her  mother  should  have  given  a  tea,"  ventured 
Mrs.  Crawford,  tentatively.  "  I  did  feel  for  them." 

"  A  tea  !     Eleanor,  are  you  insane  !     Why,   don't 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  93 

you  know  that  a  tea  will  swamp  any  girl  now,  unless 
she  is  a  tearing  beauty,  or  has  at  least  been  jilted  once 
by  a  foreign  nobleman  ?  Twenty-two  teas  wouldn't  put 
that  little  girl  on  her  legs.  I  doubt  if  even  a  small 
dance,  which  is  her  only  hope  now,  would  help  her 
much.  I  saw  her  supping  with  those  creatures  from 
Samoa.  She  had  better  take  to  literature.  There  is  a 
wide  field,  which  requires  no  teas,  no  dances,  no  men, 
no  gowns  :  such  things  are  superfluous  there.  In  that 
life  there  must  be  peace." 

" Nonsense  !"  said  Mr.  Larremore.  "There  is  noth- 
ing of  the  kind.  The  jealousies  of  artists  are  prover- 
bially more  bitter  and  more  acrimonious  than  those  of 
rival  belles." 

' '  I  wonder  why  it  is, ' '  said  Mrs.  Larremore,  ' '  that 
those  literary  people  make  such  guys  of  themselves." 
She  spoke  of  the  genus  as  if  it  had  been  a  species  of 
ape. 

"The  only  literary  people  I  ever  met,"  said  Mrs. 
Crawford,  ' '  instead  of  talking  to  me  of  their  work,  or 
of  their  higher  aspirations,  were  trying  to  impress  me 
with  the  fact,  all  the  time,  that  they  were  in  the  '  smart 
set,'  or  could  be  if  they  chose, — that  they  once  had 
dined  with  you,  dear  Mrs.  Larremore,  or  had  been  en- 
tertained at  your  step-mother's  sister's  cousin's  aunt's. 
I  confess  I  was  surprised,  because,  with  it  all,  they  af- 
fected immense  contempt  for  mundane  matters,  which 
they  said  were  most  frivolous  and  belittling." 

Mrs.  Larremore  yawned.  ' '  The  race  of  fools  is  not 
yet  extinct,  and  it  is  not  confined,  I  find,  to  any  par- 
ticular orbit.  But  when  those  Pickabones  get  invited 
here  again  they'll  know  it.  They  had  better  do  all 
their  bragging  before  my  next  affair." 


94  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

IX. 

WHEN  Miss  Highly  Tighty  rose  from  her  reclining 
attitude  she  went  to  her  desk,  sat  down  before  it,  and 
began  to  compose  a  sonnet.  It  was  called  ' '  A  World's 
Blindness." 

She  wrapped  it  carefully  in  tissue-paper,  the  next 
morning,  tied  it  between  two  pieces  of  cardboard  torn 
from  an  old  ribbon-box,  fastened  it  together  with  a  scrap 
of  pink  lutestring,  and  directed  it  to  the  editor  of  a 
well-known  magazine.  As  she  tied  it  up  she  said  to 
herself,  ' '  Genius  !' '  Her  fingers  trembled  with  excite- 
ment, and  two  crimson  spots  burned  on  her  soft  cheeks. 
She  wrote  a  line,  giving  her  own  name  and  address, 
begging  that  a  speedy  acknowledgment  of  this  contri- 
bution to  contemporaneous  literature  be  sent  to  her. 
She  also  requested  to  be  furnished  with  a  detailed 
analysis  of  its  merits  and  its  chances  of  speedy  publica- 
tion, and  inquired,  in  a  postscript,  whether  she  ought 
to  write  on  ruled  paper.  She  said  to  herself  that  she 
was  conferring  a  favor.  She  would  stoop  to  no  chi- 
canery :  all  she  desired  was  to  soar.  A  special  messen- 
ger boy  was  charged  with  this  precious  package  ;  and 
Violet  entered,  a  few  hours  after  his  departure,  into  a 
condition  of  anxiety  that  every  footfall  and  every  ring 
of  the  bell  increased  almost  to  agony.  The  blind  and 
cruel  world  which  had  failed  to  recognize  her  power 
would  now,  she  told  herself,  be  forced  to  pause  at  the 
fulminations  of  her  contempt.  She  saw  herself  a  gifted 
author  raised  to  a  pinnacle  of  fame,  in  a  province 
where  even  her  successful  cousins  would  be  forced  to 
own  themselves  beaten.  She  decided,  however, — as  it 
were,  in  parenthesis, — to  avoid  smilax  and  cockle-shells 
in  the  matter  of  personal  adornment,  and  already  began 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  95 

to  plan  a  fitting  costume  in  which  she  would  arise  to 
dazzle  the  universe. 

It  was  not  until  the  fourth  day  that  she  received  by 
mail  an  official  envelope,  bearing  on  the  outside  the 
name,  in  large  red  letters  on  a  dark  disk,  of  the  maga- 
zine she  had  addressed.  She  was  entertaining  a  girl 
friend  at  the  time  that  this  missive  was  placed  in  her 
hands,  and,  finding  her  visitor  inclined  to  a  lingering 
loquacity,  dismissed  her  with  a  mysterious  shake  of  her 
pretty  head. 

"  My  dear  Jane,"  she  said,  "  I  must  ask  you  to  leave 
me.  Some  day  I  will  tell  you  all, — all.  To-day  I  may 
not  speak  to  you,  I  may  not  explain." 

Jane  was  greatly  impressed.  She  scented  a  love- 
affair,  which  must  be  allowed  to  take  its  course  if  its 
future  was  to  be  piquant,  and,  hurrying  into  her  black 
fur  cape,  got  down  into  the  street.  The  author,  re- 
leased, flew  two  steps  at  a  time  up  to  her  rose-colored 
bedroom,  closed  the  door,  pulled  the  bolt,  and  sank 
panting  into  her  chair.  She  felt  disappointed  to  find 
the  letter  extremely  brief,  written  in  type,  and  signed 
by  some  illegible,  unreadable  person,  evidently  not  the 
editor.  It  simply  stated  that  her  note  and  package 
had  reached  their  destination  and  would  receive  re- 
spectful attention. 

Eight  days  of  extravagant  hopes  and  fears,  of  poig- 
nant, merciless  expectancy,  had  to  be  lived  through. 
Our  bright  little  friend  grew  pallid  and  languid,  dragged 
her  limbs  wearily,  and  lost  her  appetite.  She  hung 
from  the  window  or  flew  into  the  antechamber  every 
time  the  postman's  whistle  broke  the  monotony  of  the 
well-ordered  household.  She  refused  two  girls' -lun- 
cheon-parties, and  positively  declined  to  take  the 
slightest  interest  in  an  entertainment  her  mother  timidly 


96  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

suggested  giving  for  her, — receiving  the  proposition 
with  the  silent  shrug  of  one  who  has  long  since  done 
with  such  small  things. 

On  the  eighth  day  she  called  her  maid  Josephine, 
donned  a  becoming  hat  and  coat,  and  despatched  But- 
tons furtively  for  a  cab, — her  mother  was  out  shopping 
in  the  brougham, — gave  the  cabman,  in  a  voice  of  sup- 
pressed agitation,  the  address  of  the  tardy  editor,  and 
was  soon  on  the  way  to  his  lair. 

She  told  her  maid  her  errand ;  she  was  dying  for  a 
confidante. 

"You're  so  rich,  miss,"  Josephine  said  to  her,  "I 
don't  see  why  you  should  be  bothered  with  writing. 
Them  as  is  poor  ought  to  write  the  books." 

"Rich!"  Miss  Highty  Tighty's  eyes  rolled  to  the 
cab's  horizon.  "Rich!  I  write  for  fame,  Josephine. " 

"Well,  I  guess  it  ain't  wuth  it,"  said  Josephine. 

"Oh,  of  course  you  cannot  comprehend,"  leaning 
back  with  a  sigh. 

"Well,  miss,  if  I  was  rich  I  guess  I'd  take  it  easy." 

' '  I  am  afraid  yours  is  a  sordid  soul,  Josephine. 
What  would  you  do  if  you  had  money,  pray?" 

"I've  got  no  friends  except  my  mother,  miss,  and 
God  Almighty,"  said  Josephine,  quite  cheerfully,  evi- 
dently thinking  ' '  sordid' '  meant  something  flattering, 
"and  I  guess  if  I  was  rich  I'd  have  a  plenty  of  them. 
I'd  buy  the  little  cottage  down  by  the  East  Lake,  miss, 
for  my  mother,  so  she  could  have  a  place  of  her  own, 
and  I'd  put  my  sister  Maggie  with  her  ;  she's  kind  of 
sickly  to  work  hard  as  she's  doin'."  Thus  Josephine's 
sordidness  declared  itself. 

At  this  moment  they  arrived.  Violet  entered  the 
large  book-shop  which  faced  the  street  with  that  same 
mysterious,  swift,  almost  guilty  movement  with  which 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  97 

she  had  impressed  her  friend  Jane  on  a  previous  occa- 
sion. Josephine,  in  a  gray  ulster  and  brown  bonnet, 
brought  up  the  rear.  The  young  mistress  attracted 
that  mild  form  of  attention  which  is  accorded  to  femi- 
nine charm  by  the  weary  and  harassed  clerk  of  a  fash- 
ionable shop.  Pretty  girls  were  not  rare,  and  their 
entrance  aroused  little  curiosity  or  excitement.  Never- 
theless a  red-headed  youth  left  abruptly  a  wearisome 
old  gentleman  who  was  fumbling  querulously  over  some 
volumes,  and  accosted  her  with  a  certain  degree  of 
alacrity. 

' '  Can  I  show  you  anything,  miss  ?  New  novels, 
eh?  Here  is  'The  Acrobat's  Inquiry,'  the  great  suc- 
cess of  the  season,  by  a  society  woman,  Mrs.  Plum,  of 
Louisville,  Kentucky. ' ' 

"Thank  you,"  said  Miss  Hyatt  Titus,  loftily.  "I 
desire  to  see  Mr.  Carper,  the  editor,  in  person,  on 
special  business.  Is  he  here,  and  at  liberty  ?' ' 

The  clerk  stared,  surprised.  ' '  Certainly,  miss.  Step 
this  way." 

"Josephine,"  with  a  wave  of  her  hand,  "follow 
me." 

Josephine  followed  with  round  eyes.  They  were 
ushered  between  the  book-laden  counters,  through  a 
gloomy  passage,  into  a  long,  narrow  room  fitted  with  a 
table  and  two  sofas.  Upon  its  walls  were  hung  a  variety 
of  sketches  and  photographs,  apparently  portraits  of 
authors,  signed  in  bold  autographs.  Some  of  them 
were  large  and  conspicuous,  and  represented  well-known 
women  writers.  One  or  two  of  these  ladies  wore  low- 
necked  gowns,  had  assumed  poses  of  more  or  less  pic- 
turesqueness,  and  looked  out  with  intellectual  challenge 
from  under  masses  of  shaggy  or  frizzled  hair. 

Josephine  sank  resigned  into  a  chair  near  the  door, 
E       g  9 


98  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

and  it  was  during  this  mute  contemplation  that  a  panel 
was  pushed  away  with  a  jerk,  and  a  man's  head  emerged 
from  a  neighboring  room.  After  peering  in  cautiously 
for  a  few  seconds,  he  stepped  across  the  threshold.  He 
seemed  to  be  about  thirty,  and  was  distinctly  hand- 
some. He  wore  a  suit  of  gray  rough  morning  cloth, 
was  a  six-footer,  broad  in  the  chest,  robust,  and  carried 
himself  more  like  an  English  sportsman  than  like  a 
litterateur. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?"  he  said,  a  trifle  awkwardly. 

"  I  came  to  see  you  on  ...  on  ...  business," 
said  Miss  Highty  Tighty.  ' '  Are  you  the  ...  er  ... 
editor?" 

"  I  am  Mr.  Carper.     Won't  you  sit  down  ?" 

She  sat  down.  Her  throat  felt  a  little  dry.  ' '  I  sent 
a  poem — a  sonnet — here,  some  days  since,"  she  said, 
"but  they  don't  write  me  about  it.  I  don't  seem  to 
hear  anything. ' ' 

"Ah!  What  was  its  name?"  he  asked,  looking 
with  evident  admiration  at  the  fair  girl  before  him.  He 
seated  himself  near  the  table,  crossing  his  legs,  and 
toying  carelessly  with  a  paper-knife  which  lay  under  his 
hand. 

She  gave  her  name  and  that  of  her  performance. 

"I  think  you  are  mistaken,"  he  replied,  still  staring 
at  her  admiringly.  "There  hasn't  been  any  such  poem 
sent  here.  It  hasn't  come  under  my  notice.  To  be 
sure,  I  only  landed  from  Europe  last  night,  so  that  I 
don't  know  very  much  about  it." 

"Who  does  know,  then?"  asked  the  girl,  her  eyes 
filling  with  angry  tears,  and  not  without  a  slight  as- 
perity of  voice.  ' '  Some  one  wrote  me  it  had  been  re- 
ceived. Would  they  have  thrown  it  away  ?"  she  asked, 
with  quivering  lips. 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  99 

"  Oh,  dear,  no  !  of  course  not !  You  understand  we 
can't  always  send  back  rejected  pieces.  We  couldn't 
undertake  it,  don' t  you  know  ?' '  His  smile  jarred  upon 
her  nerves.  "Here,  French,  come  in  here.  Here's 

a  lady  has  sent  a  sonnet Ah  !  you  are  looking 

up  at  Mrs.  Plum's  portrait,  I  see  !  Wonderful,  that 
woman  !  Two  hundred  thousand  copies  of  her  '  Acro- 
bat,' and  the  sale  still  booming.  Whew  !  There's  a 
book  for  you  !  I  don't  know  as  we'll  ever  get  another 
like  it.  She's  a  jewel,  Mrs.  Plum,  but  she's  a  little 
devil,  too,  I  tell  you  !  Why  don't  you  write  a  novel, 
instead  of  wasting  your  time  on  sonnets  ?  They  don' t 
pay,  anyway.  Ha  !  ha  !"  And  he  laughed. 

She  didn't  say  to  him,  as  she  had  to  the  maid,  that 
she  wrote  for  fame.  Fame  seemed  just  then  a  fickle 
goddess,  and  this  man's  hopeless  commonplace  was  not 
the  lost  key  to  her  inconstant  favor. 

Mr.  French  now  came  in.  He  was  a  short,  spare 
person,  with  a  shock  of  yellow  hair,  which  stood  up  in 
waves  from  a  high,  pale  forehead.  He  threw  the  lapels 
of  his  coat  back,  as  he  entered,  with  the  back  of  his 
thumbs,  jauntily,  and  stuck  his  tongue  into  his  left 
cheek. 

"  I  am  the  author  of  '  A  World's  Blindness.'  I  have 
come  to  learn  if  it  will  suit  you  for  the  magazine, ' '  said 
Miss  Hyatt  Titus,  rising  proudly,  with  head  erect  and 
quivering  nostril,  but  with  a  heart  of  lead  and  cold, 
shaking  fingers. 

With  a  spasmodic,  nervous  movement  the  short 
man  looked  helplessly  at  Mr.  Carper  and  remained 
speechless. 

"Did  you  read  it,  French,  eh?"  asked  the  latter, 
smothering  an  evidently  continued  inclination  to  hilarity 
under  a  stern  frown  and  severe  voice. 


100  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

French  scratched  his  head.  "Ye-e-e-s,"  he  said, 
' '  I  read  it.  I  remember  it. ' ' 

"Well?"  said  the  girl,  eagerly. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  French,  "you  see,  miss,  our 
magazine's  made  up  for  a  couple  of  years  or  more 
ahead.  By  the  time  your  poem  came  round,  the  pub- 
lic demand  for  sonnets — never  very  pronounced — might 
be  ...  er  ...  as  it  were  in  abeyance.  So  that  .  .  . 
so  that  ...  we  wouldn't  like  to  pledge  ourselves  to 
anything. ' '  He  looked  helplessly  at  Mr.  Carper  ;  but 
this  gentleman  refused  to  come  to  his  rescue,  and  con- 
tinued to  glare  and  frown,  keeping  his  left  eye  fixed 
meanwhile  upon  the  profile  of  Mrs.  Plum — which  swung 
upon  its  nail  above  him — as  upon  an  segis  of  safety  and 
of  refuge.  His  attention  seemed  to  be  wavering. 

He  took  up  a  volume.  ' '  Do  you  know  Larkins  ? 
eh  ?  and  his  work  ?  No,  I  presume  not.  That  man's 
pluck  ! — Well  !  publishes  a  novel  yearly  ;  pays  for  the 
plates  himself;  falls  dead  as  a  door-nail ;  goes  straight 
on.  We're  about  sick  of  it ;  but  you  can't  stop  him  ; 
he's  wound  up  as  tight  as  a  kite.  Seems  as  if  he  had 
no  sense,  ha  !  ha  !" 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mr.  French,  now  a  trifle  impatient, 
"if  Mr.  Carper  says  so,  your  ...  er  ...  poetry  can 
go  into  the  magazine  to-morrow.  Something  else  can 
be  thrown  overboard.  It  all  rests  with  our  editor.  It's 
all  one  to  me."  But  Miss  Hyatt  Titus  had  risen  and 
was  making  for  the  door.  "You  can  return  it  to  me," 
she  fulminated,  sweeping  by  Josephine  with  a  glance 
whose  warning  caused  this  young  woman  to  start  to  her 
feet  like  a  Chinese  mandarin  from  its  spring  toy-box. 

A  rustle  of  garments  made  her  look  up  as  she  tripped 
across  the  corridor,  followed  by  her  maid.  A  tall  per- 
son, with  a  crushed-strawberry  scarf  wound  about  her 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  IOI 

serpentine  figure,  came  quickly  forward  from  some 
dark  embrasure,  and,  throwing  her  attenuated  arms 
about  Violet,  saluted  her  fervently.  ' '  Dearest  Cynthia !' ' 
she  cried. 

"  But  I  am  not  Cynthia." 

"Ah,  you  cannot  deceive  me,"  said  the  tall  lady, 
shaking  her  mane.  "The  author  of  'A  Woman's 
Wail'  has  found  repose,  nay,  shelter,  on  this  breast !" 
and  our  would-be  poet  was  again  pressed  with  violence 
against  a  wish-bone  of  peculiar  sharpness.  ' '  Such 
talent,  such  fire,  pathos,  passion  .  .  .  oh  !"  cried  the 
female  editress  in  a  fine  rhapsody. 

"  But  you  are  mistaken." 

A  ray  of  light  pierced  the  gloom  as  Mr.  French's 
retreating  figure  was  absorbed  into  a  back  office. 
1 '  Bless  me  !' '  said  the  lady,  winking  a  pair  of  small, 
deep-set  eyes,  and  waking  from  her  frenzy.  ' '  I  was 
expecting  Cynthia.  I'm  sure  I  beg  your  pardo-  miss." 

X. 

IN  the  spring  there  was  another  wedding  in  the  Hatch 
household.  This  time  it  was  no  runaway,  like  Muriel's, 
no  mending  of  a  lacerated  heart,  like  Willie  Truden's 
compromise  with  Audrey  ;  but  two  bright  and  ardent 
young  souls,  with  the  parental  blessing  and  the  world's 
approval,  stepped  forth  together,  fresh  to  their  new 
existence.  For  some  occult  reason  best  known  to  her- 
self, the  fair  May-Margaret,  who  was  nothing  if  not 
wayward,  developed  a  pronounced  desire  for  a  spice  of 
the  world's  frivolity,  as  well  as  of  its  sanction,  at  her 
nuptials.  She  made  an  extensive  list  of  the  people  she 
wished  invited,  sitting  on  the  floor  at  her  mother's  feet. 
And  first  and  foremost  upon  this  list  were  the  names  of 

9* 


102  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

Mrs.  Larremore,  of  the  Arthur  Crawfords,  and  of  a  lot 
of  people  whom  she  knew  at  best  but  very  little,  and 
her  reverend  adorer  not  at  all. 

"  If  he  thinks  I  am  going  to  mope  because  I  marry 
a  clergyman,"  she  said  to  her  mother,  "I  had  better 
get  him  out  of  that  idea  at  once.  I  intend  to  make 
him  a  bishop,  and  these  people  may  be  important. 
This  is  the  first  step.  We'll  have  to  give  dinner-parties 
when  he  is  a  bishop,  and  he's  got  to  learn  now." 

To  all  of  this  the  Rev.  Parachute,  when  he  was  ad- 
mitted to  the  conclave,  listened  in  frightened  ecstasy. 
It  was  evident  that  May-Margaret  was  ambitious.  He 
told  himself  that  there  were  flowers,  like  the  girofle'e, 
meant  to  climb,  and  whose  calyx  only  reached  perfec- 
tion when  leaning  over  the  abyss.  The  sons  of  God 
were  ever  prone  to  see  the  daughters  of  men,  that  they 
were  fair. 

A  delicious  ravishment  robbed  him  of  speech.  Some- 
times at  night,  kneeling  before  his  crucifix,  he  implored 
forgiveness  for  this  deadly  sin  of  loving  one  of  God's 
creatures  overmuch.  He  prayed  that  it  might  not  be 
imputed  as  sin  for  him  to  have  chosen  as  his  cherished 
companion  one  who  was  so  full  of  earthly  fascination. 
He  felt  sure — oh,  so  sure  ! — that  she  was  also  good  and 
gentle. 

Mrs.  Larremore,  whose  winter  had  on  the  whole 
bored  her, — she  almost  wished  there  were  fresh  ladders 
to  mount :  what  blissful  days  those  of  the  breathless 
ascent ! — and  Mrs.  Arthur  Crawford,  who  was  in  excel- 
lent spirits  because  of  her  own  attainment,  volunteered 
to  chaperon  a  party  of  young  people  up  from  town. 
They  thought  it  would  be  amusing. 

Lady  Brownlow,  who  had  crossed  the  seas  expressly, 
had  arrived  at  the  lake  the  day  before,  accompanied  by 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  103 

her  husband,  a  couple  of  handsome  Englishmen,  two 
maids,  a  valet,  and  twenty-seven  boxes.  These  gallant 
Britishers,  with  a  neighbor  or  two,  and  a  dude  from  the 
city,  were  impressed  into  the  service  as  ushers,  pre- 
ceded by  Crummy  in  a  starched  ruff  and  a  little  Henry 
III.  blue  velvet  jacket,  made  out  of  his  mother's  first 
married  ball-gown.  Crummy  was  omnipresent,  under 
everybody's  feet,  still  freckled,  still  troublesome,  still 
noisy,  but  clean  for  once,  and  bursting  with  importance. 

Lucille  and  Lillian  Hatch,  the  twins,  pretty,  flower- 
like  creatures  of  sixteen  summers,  were  to  be  bride- 
maidens,  with  two  other  girls,  one  of  whom  was  im- 
ported from  a  distant  town,  to  represent  the  Parachute 
clan.  And  then,  besides  these,  there  was  our  poet.  She 
had  never  been  invited  to  be  a  bridesmaid  before,  and 
even  aesthetic  and  literary  young  women  are  human. 
She  was  pleased.  She  expressed  herself,  however, 
condescendingly,  alluding  to  the  fact  that,  having 
entered  the  field  of  literature, — how  Mrs.  Hatch 
laughed  ! — her  time  was  not  now  fully  at  her  own 
command. 

The  fact  was,  Miss  Hyatt  Titus,  after  nursing  for  two 
months  her  baffled  ambition  with  thoughts  of  revenge, 
had  once  more  taken  up  the  pen.  This  time  she  had 
been  practical.  She  had  taken  Mr.  Carper's  advice. 
She  had  done  with  sonnets.  She  was  writing  a  novel. 
Its  name  was  "  Novensides."  She  didn't  know  what 
it  meant,  but  she  decided  to  find  out  when  the  book 
was  finished.  As  she  had  only  written  a  chapter  and 
a  half,  there  seemed  to  be  no  immediate  haste.  She 
now  spoke  openly  of  her  literary  labors.  It  sounded 
well,  or  at  least  she  thought  so  ;  and  the  smiles  and 
nods  of  her  acquaintances  were  taken  for  the  expres- 
sion of  astonished  admiration.  One  girl  had  indeed 


104  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

been  somewhat  offensively  inquisitive  as  to  what  she 
had  already  published,  and  had  given  vent  to  a  slightly 
mocking  titter  when  told  that  the  publication  of  a  thing 
was  of  little  moment,  if  only  there  was  the  talent. 
This  lack  of  sympathy  Miss  Hyatt  Titus  attributed  to 
the  jealousy  always  awakened  in  small  and  mediocre 
breasts  by  impending  success. 

She  had  decided  upon  at  least  two  characters  in  her 
story.  One  was  to  be  a  thinly-veiled  Mrs.  Larremore, 
represented  as  a  malignant,  malevolent,  mischief-brewing 
being,  given  over  to  all  manner  of  wickedness,  slyness, 
and  deceit ;  attractive — within  limits — but  doomed  to 
ultimate  perdition  in  this  planet  and  the  next.  The 
other  was  a  polished  villain .  She  had  first  intended  to 
portray  him  as  an  English  duke,  who  should  inveigle 
into  his  toils  and  decoy  to  her  destruction  a  village 
maiden.  Unfortunately,  having  imparted  this  portion 
of  the  plot  to  her  friend  the  mocking  girl,  this  young 
lady  had  giggled  again,  and  this  time  more  provokingly. 
"Why,  yes,"  she  had  said,  "do!  That  would  be  so 
new  !"  And  somehow  Miss  Highty  Tighty  had  sus- 
pected the  girl's  words  to  convey  hidden  satire.  Could 
it  be  possible  ? 

Then  when  she  had  essayed  to  portray  the  Earl  of 
Brownlow — the  nearest  approach  she  knew  to  an  Eng- 
lish duke — she  found  herself  embarrassed,  Draco,  or 
"Brownie,"  as  Mrs.  Larremore  called  him,  was  so  far 
from  her  preconception  of  the  polished  villain, — such 
polished  villains  as  she  had  seen  upon  the  stage, — 
gentlemen  invariably  dressed,  whatever  the  season,  in 
light  summer  overcoats,  high  gray  silk  hats,  and  dia- 
mond scarf-pins .  ' '  Why  do  polished  villains  always 
wear  a  gray  silk  hat  ?' '  she  asked  herself,  pondering, 
doubting,  depressed. 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT  105 

The  heroine  of  "  Novensides"  was  an  ethereal,  ex- 
quisitely dressed,  misunderstood  by  friends  and  family 
.  .  .  genius.  Her  face  and  figure  were  described  with 
close  minutiae,  described  so  conclusively  to  represent 
— herself,  that  she  grew  frightened  at  the  last  minute, 
and  threw  in  a  mole  under  the  left  ear.  She  decided 
she  could  change  the  hair  later,  if  the  publisher  thought 
it  wise.  She  remembered  that  Homer  only  tells  us 
that  Achilles  was  blond,  and  that  somehow  we  see  him, 
and  wondered  why  this  girl,  so  elaborately  detailed, 
remained  elusive,  intangible,  and  unreal.  She  even 
had  shed  a  few  tears  over  this.  She  had  grown  tired 
and  fretful.  She  had  inked  her  best  frock.  Could  it 
be  possible  that  Homer  or  Achilles  or  somebody  was 
cleverer  than  she?  But  this  was  only  a  momentary 
weakness,  such  as  she  had  experienced  after  her  first 
visit  to  Mr.  Carper,  when  she  had  felt  humbled  in  spite 
of  herself,  and  had  sighed  for  wisdom. 

Yes,  it  would  be  a  rest  and  respite  from  this  arduous 
career  to  dance  at  her  cousin  May-Margaret's  wedding. 

What  a  lovely  day  it  was,  to  be  sure  !  and  how  hand- 
some Papa  and  Mamma  Hatch  looked,  she  in  her  lilac 
silk  and  he  with  his  boutonniere  / 

The  Rev.  Parachute  was  very  pale,  as  if  he  had 
passed  a  night  of  vigil,  but  May-Margaret,  who  had 
slept  soundly  for  twelve  hours,  and  had  eaten  a  capital 
breakfast,  was  gay  and  rosy,  and  seemed  to  view  the 
whole  affair  as  an  immense  frolic.  She  gave  her  hand 
a  moment  shyly  to  her  lover,  on  the  stairs,  and  blushed 
under  her  orange-blossoms  at  some  word  he  whispered 
to  her  of  her  beauty. 

The  Countess  of  Brownlow  caused  a  profound  sensa- 
tion as  she  swayed  up  the  aisle  of  the  country  church, 
upon  the  arm  of  one  of  the  English  ushers,  in  a  won- 


106  THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

derfully  fitting  gown  of  satin  and  lace.  There  was 
almost  as  much  tremor  when  Mrs.  Larremore,  in  a 
cloud  of  Nile-green  chiffon,  was  whirled  half-way  to 
the  altar,  at  the  Earl  of  Brownlow's  elbow.  Having 
ensconced  his  charge  in  a  prominent  pew,  he  left  her, 
lumbering  up,  with  his  awkward  gait,  to  join  his  beau- 
tiful wife. 

Then  afterwards,  at  the  Hatcheries,  there  was  a 
festive  gathering  indeed.  All  were  here  except  the 
Trudens,  who  were  travelling  far  away  in  the  Greek 
Islands  and  cabled  their  message  of  affection  across 
seas,  oceans,  and  archipelagoes. 

Even  Cousin  Martha  unbent  for  the  occasion,  and 
was  most  affable  to  Mr.  Hatch,  who  buried  the  hatchet 
and  took  her  in  to  breakfast.  Mr.  Hyatt  Titus,  who 
sidled  up  to  Mrs.  Larremore  with  a  broiled  bird  on  the 
end  of  a  fork,  and  a  glass  of  champagne  between  his 
thumb  and  index,  was  rewarded  by  a  melting  smile. 
And  his  daughter  drew  the  ring  out  of  the  bridesmaids' 
cake  which  was  given  her  by  her  groomsman.  This 
groomsman  was  a  timid,  callow  young  man,  the  son  of 
a  gentleman  reported  to  own  the  greater  portion  of  a 
Western  Territory,  and  a  fabulously  productive  gold- 
mine. He  also  had  been  imported  by  Mr.  Parachute 
from  his  far-away  province,  as  being  a  distant  relative. 
This  gilded  youth  trembled  when  Miss  Hyatt  Titus 
looked  at  him.  He  thought  her  the  very  embodiment 
of  fashion,  elegance,  and  distinction.  The  author  of 
' '  Novensides' '  wondered  if  to  be  understood  and  dei- 
fied one  must  indeed  revert  to  distant  and  imported 
worshippers.  She  wondered  if  gold-digging  in  remote 
regions  might  not  afford  solace  to  a  wounded  spirit. 
She  dazzled  him  so  completely,  before  the  day  had 
drifted  into  the  twilight  and  the  rice  and  slippers  had 


THE  FIRST  FLIGHT. 


107 


been  hurled  at  the  departing  Parachutes, — May-Marga- 
ret's hat  being  generously  trimmed  by  a  beading  of  the 
Mascote  grain, — that  her  own  foolish  heart  fluttered 
with  a  longing  half  assuaged.  Her  vanity  had  found 
aliment  at  last.  She  had  made  her  first  conquest. 


Morning  Mists 


"  /~~*OME  down  for  a  couple  of  nights,  old  man,  and 

V^x  we'  11  have  some  tennis.  '  '  So  said  Bruce,  swing- 
ing his  long,  calfless  legs  from  the  top  of  my  dining- 
table,  in  my  new  chambers,  across  the  square. 

"All  right,"  said  I,  "  I'm  yours." 

I  was  very  proud  of  my  new  rooms,  proud  of  living 
at  last  in  the  metropolis  which  had  long  been  the  El 
Dorado  of  my  reveries.  My  college  days  were  over. 
I  felt  very  important  at  being  admitted  in  the  law  office 
of  a  great  firm,  and  had  distant  visions  of  partnership 
and  of  honors.  Oh,  the  brave  illusions  of  the  young  ! 

At  home  I  lived  in  a  suburb,  a  breezy  one,  far  enough 
from  the  town  to  catch  a  near  breath  of  salt  sea  smells, 
a  more  distant  one  of  sweet-scented  meadow-grasses. 

The  promise  now  of  a  day  or  two  in  the  country  was 
alluring  to  me.  Dimly,  nature  was  pulling  at  my  heart- 
strings. For,  although  I  looked  very  commonplace 
and  practical,  and  affected  a  certain  deliberateness  of 
speech  and  manner,  I  had,  I  think,  in  these  early  days, 
an  ardent  and  dreamy  soul.  I  don't  fancy  any  one  else 
would  have  imagined  it,  for  my  appearance  has  never 
been  romantic.  My  mother  has  always  told  me  I  was 
108 


MORNING  MISTS  109 

very  plain.  She  was  herself  an  elderly  person,  whose 
expiring  effort  of  maternity,  after  many  more  success- 
ful performances,  had  produced  .  .  .  me.  But  I  was 
well-made  enough,  and  brown  and  strong ;  and  there 
was  a  certain  freshness  about  my  mouth  and  lips  that 
women  liked  ;  at  least,  so  they  have  told  me  since,  but 
they  had  not  told  me  then. 

My  idea  of  motherhood  always  presented  to  me  a 
picture  of  scrupulous  housekeeping,  a  considerable  de- 
gree of  self-immolation,  and  an  occasional  dose  of 
castor-oil.  Mothers  seemed  to  me  a  sort  of  benevo- 
lent, beneficent,  care-worn,  anxious,  foolish  race  who 
scolded  gently,  administered  medicines  when  one  was 
ill,  and  were  to  be  dealt  with  kindly  and  indulgently, 
and  to  be  deceived  as  to  all  minor  details  of  one's  ex- 
perience. 

Bruce  had  invited  me  before  to  his  paternal  acres, 
but,  somehow,  I  had  never  gone.  We  had  only  been 
very  intimate  during  our  last  year  in  college,  when  a 
boat-race  won  in  unison  had  cemented  a  nascent  liking. 
As  his  conversation  was  always  devoted  to  the  merits 
and  demerits  of  various  departments  of  athletics,  he  had 
never  entertained  me  about  his  home  and  its  inmates. 
I  knew  he  received  letters  from  a  mother  who,  he  once 
told  me,  was  a  "darling  old  girl,"  and  that  he  had  a 
step-father  and  a  little  half-brother.  His  own  father 
had  died  when  Bruce  was  a  baby.  At  twenty  the  family 
pipe  is  soon  smoked  out  and  thrown  aside,  and  Bruce 
was  not  yet  twenty.  I  was  a  year  his  senior.  We  had 
both  entered  college  very  young. 

There  were  signs  of  elegance  about  Bruce  which  led 
us  to  suppose  him  to  be  very  rich.  He  spent  money 
liberally,  dressed  rather  extravagantly,  and  hinted  that 
at  twenty-one  his  supply  of  funds  would  be  even  more 


no  MORNING  MISTS 

generous.  Although  not  over-bright,  he  was  a  good 
fellow,  and  a  great  favorite. 

Having  accepted  his  invitation,  and  been  told  to  put 
a  dress-suit  in  my  valise, — "Mamma  is  fussy  about  such 
things,"  he  had  said, — we  started  up  the  river  together, 
in  the  pink  glow  of  a  departing  sun  :  the  river,  the  only 
one  to  us  who  live  in  the  Middle  States. 

When  our  steamer  creaked  up  to  its  rough  pier  it 
was  quite  dusk.  It  was  early  in  November.  The 
autumn  had  been  unusually  mild.  The  leaves,  not  yet 
fallen  from  the  trees  which  bordered  the  road,  crowned 
them  with  russet  and  crimson,  and  cast  athwart  the 
steep  ascent  lengthening  shadows.  One  felt  that  a  storm 
might  rise  at  any  moment,  shake  them  wind-swept  from 
their  boughs,  and,  lo,  the  winter  would  have  come  ! 

A  smart  tilbury  met  us  close  to  the  dock.  Bruce 
seized  the  reins,  the  liveried  groom  sprang  up  behind 
us,  and  we  were  soon  bowling  up  the  hill.  After  a 
short  half-mile,  we  turned  abruptly  from  the  main  road 
into  a  narrow  lane,  passed  under  an  embankment, 
through  a  stone  archway,  and  entered  what  seemed  to 
be  a  species  of  park. 

"This  is  the  big  house  where  my  grandmother  lives," 
said  Bruce,  touching  up  his  horse  and  pointing  with  his 
whip  at  a  great  pile  of  pale  marble  which  rose  up  from 
amid  sombre  evergreen  hedges.  "  And  here,"  he  said, 
a  few  moments  later,  as  we  crunched  the  gravel  in  front 
of  a  more  modest  construction,  ' '  here  is  our  own 
house. ' ' 

It  was  a  low,  rambling,  old-fashioned  cottage,  literally 
covered  and  smothered  in  vines  and  roses.  It  was  long 
and  wide,  and  looked  very  attractive  to  my  eyes.  A 
man-servant  came  out  from  under  the  porch  to  take  my 
valise,  and  preceded  us  into  the  hall,  which  was  narrow 


MORNING  MISTS  I" 

and  almost  dark.  The  domestic  murmured  that  he  had 
not  expected  us  quite  so  early,  or  he  would  have  lighted 
the  lamps.  He  raised  a  heavy  curtain  which  concealed 
a  door-way  on  the  right,  and  ushered  us  into  a  small 
drawing-room.  This  in  turn  opened  into  two  other 
rooms,  affording  us  a  vista  which  seemed  to  me  one  of 
rare  charm.  In  fact,  I  can  recall  nothing  more  grate- 
ful than  the  sudden  change  from  the  gusty  chill  of  the 
evening  outside  to  the  rich  warmth  and  comfort  of  this 
cosy  apartment. 

There  mingled,  I  remember,  the  fragrance  of  violets 
with  a  pervading  smell  of  wood  fire.  There  was,  in 
fact,  a  large  bowl  of  these  delicate,  refined  flowers  on 
the  table,  adding  their  puissant  aroma  to  my  first  im- 
pressions. A  fire  of  large  logs  on  the  hearth  crackled 
brightly.  Near  it  was  drawn  a  small  tea-table  covered 
with  some  rich  Oriental  embroideries,  where  the  silver 
kettle  was  already  giving  forth  a  buzzing,  hissing  sound. 
This  table  was  illumined  by  two  wax-lights  discreetly 
tempered  by  silken  shades,  and  their  fitful  blaze,  with 
that  from  the  hearth,  alone  lit  up  an  otherwise  mys- 
terious gloom. 

In  a  distant  boudoir  two  lamps  were  veiled  in  silks 
and  laces,  hiding  modestly  their  brilliancy,  as  a  fair 
woman  her  charms.  Their  rays  rested  upon  a  variety 
of  objects  of  artistic  grace,  vivifying  their  beauty.  The 
walls  were  draped  in  dim  stuffs  suggestive  of  a  French 
chateau  of  the  old  regime.  The  golden  frames  of  a 
few  fine  pictures  of  tender  coloring  made  a  glowing 
background  to  the  bits  of  antique  furniture,  rare  carv- 
ings, bric-a-brac,  and  bibelots  which  rose  up  against 
their  glinting  surfaces. 

There  was  such  a  hush  and  reposefulness  about  these 
fairy-like  rooms  that  Bruce' s  "  Hang  on  here,  old  fel- 


112  MORNING  MISTS 

low  ;  I'll  run  up  and  find  the  mother,"  rang  harshly  on 
my  drugged  senses. 

"Mrs.  Pryor  told  me  to  tell  you,  sir,"  said  the  ser- 
vant, who  had  returned  with  some  cream  and  a  small 
plate  on  which  were  disposed  slices  of  thin  bread-and- 
butter, — he  addressed  Bruce, — "that  she  drove  late, 
and  was  just  dressing,  but  she  would  be  down  in  a 
minute,  to  make  the  tea  for  you  and  the  gentleman  ; 
but  that  if  you  wanted  it  at  once,  sir,  I  could  make  it 
for  you." 

"No,  I'll  run  up,"  said  Bruce,  and  vanished.  The 
servant,  after  disposing  of  his  trayful,  also  disappeared, 
and  silence  fell  again  upon  the  house  of  Pryor.  It  was 
a  silence  absolute.  No,  for  now  and  then  a  log  got  dis- 
placed, and  fell  forward,  emitting  a  sort  of  smothered 
sigh  ;  while  the  kettle  continued  to  whiff  and  puff  with 
intermittent  jerks  and  snorts.  Outside,  now  and  then, 
a  riotous  vine,  whose  dim  reflection  I  could  vaguely 
catch  through  the  low  curtained  window,  scratched 
along  the  narrow  pane. 

I  buried  myself  in  a  deep,  low,  cushioned  chair,  close 
to  the  grateful  heat,  crossed  my  legs,  leaned  back  my 
head,  and  gave  myself  up  to  pleasant  reflection.  Its 
meshes  were  as  confused,  as  uncertain,  as  the  dimness 
which  environed  me.  Having  so  lately  attained  the 
freedom  of  a  newly  acquired  loneliness,  the  aspiration 
of  my  boyhood — independence — in  the  direction  of  am- 
bition, there  was  a  momentary  lull  of  thought ;  in  that 
of  the  emotions  all  was  as  yet  unawakened.  .  There  was 
restlessness, — no  more.  I  was  as  innocent  in  sentiment 
as  when  the  nurse  had  announced  me  to  the  languid 
curiosity  of  an  eighth  accouchement,  "  It's  a  little  boy." 
My  boyhood  had  been  engrossed  in  manly  exercises, 
out-of-door  life,  and  study  ;  my  college  days  with  feats 


MORNING  MISTS  113 

of  prowess,  in  which  I  had  won  some  reputation  for 
skill  and  strength,  and  more  study.  The  men  liked 
me,  a  few  with  enthusiasm.  The  girls  said  I  was  a 
' '  nice  sort  of  a  boy, ' '  but  I  noticed  that  they  left  me 
severely  alone.  I  was  timid  ;  I  dared  not  molest  them 
much  ;  I  feared  to  be  importunate.  I  have  since  learned 
that  women  resent  this  form  of  delicacy.  I  have  tried 
to  make  amends. 

Well,  the  kettle  was  just  beginning  to  steam  at  the 
spout,  and  to  promise  a  speedy  inundation,  when  a  light 
step  touched  the  parquet  flooring.  I  turned  and  rose 
to  my  feet,  for  a  lady  had  crossed  the  door-sill.  A 
sudden  flare  of  flame  caught  her  in  its  embrace,  and 
exhibited  her  to  me,  for  a  moment,  in  a  picture  which 
nothing  will  ever  efface  from  my  memory. 

"Is  it  Mr.  Innes?"  she  asked,  in  a  grave,  low  voice. 

I  explained  that  I  was  Mr.  Innes,  and  that  I  was 
waiting  for  Mrs.  Pryor.  I  felt  vexed  with  Bruce  for 
not  having  warned  me  that  there  were  to  be  goddesses 
about.  I  thought  I  had  left  these  deities  definitively 
behind  me,  with  my  now  dusty  classics,  on  my  book- 
shelves. One  did  not  want  to  find  them  here  again,  at 
once,  under  one's  feet.  This  was  hardly  fair.  I  felt 
myself  grow  very  hot  and  very  red  as  the  vision  begged 
me,  with  a  nonchalant  movement  of  the  hand,  to  keep 
my  seat.  She  herself  neared  the  tea-table,  and,  draw- 
ing a  tapestried  chair  close  to  it,  said,  "While  Mrs. 
Pryor  makes  her  toilet,  suppose  we  make  tea.  Do  you 
take  sugar  and  cream?  Yes?  Well,  here!"  And 
she  deftly  poured  out  the  fragrant  drink  with  splendid 
jewelled  hands,  and  handed  me  a  cup,  and  then  some 
bread-  and-butter. 

She  was  tall,  even  very  tall,  and  what  one  would  call 
a  large  woman,  although  there  was  not  an  ounce  of 
h  10* 


114  MORNING  MISTS 

superfluous  flesh  to  mar  the  symmetry  of  her  perfect 
proportions.  There  was  a  sort  of  force  in  her  move- 
ments which  held  me  in  a  spell  of  wonder  and  of  pleas- 
ure bordering  on  excitement.  Her  wealth  of  dark  hair 
seemed  to  crown  her  as  with  an  empress's  coronet. 
Her  wide  eyes  were  of  a  peculiar  electric  bluish-gray. 
She  was  very  pale ;  her  pallor,  however,  did  not  sug- 
gest ill  health.  It  was  warm  and  creamy  in  hue.  Her 
mouth,  which  was  small,  was  like  a  crimson  blossom. 
From  her  garments,  as  she  moved  and  talked,  there 
breathed  a  fragrance  as  of  life  and  joy.  I  had  not  been 
near  her  ten  minutes,  and  already  the  blood  from  my 
heart  was  coursing  through  my  boy's  brain  and  veins 
with  pulsations  of  a  strange  exhilaration.  Yet  her 
presence  caused  me  a  certain  anxiety  which  was  almost 
anguish. 

I  was  so  busy  noting  her  personality  that  I  can  hardly 
remember  what  we  talked  about.  Afterwards  I  was 
tortured  by  the  thought  of  what  a  piteous  part  I  had 
played  in  the  conversation.  I  remember  she  asked  me 
almost  immediately  if  I  had  an  evening  paper.  I  told 
her  I  had  left  one  in  my  overcoat  pocket,  and  went  out 
in  the  hall  to  find  it  for  her. 

When  I  brought  it  she  turned  it  over  impatiently, 
and  leaned  towards  the  light  to  find  something  in  it, 
whatever  it  might  be,  with  avidity.  "Ah!"  by  and 
by  she  murmured,  ' '  I  wanted  to  see  if  Mrs.  Drummond 
had  obtained  her  .  .  .  separation.  I  see  that  she  has 
done  so,  and  that  she  has  come  out  of  her  ordeal  .  .  . 
with  honors." 

"  There  are  no  honors  in  all  this  publicity,"  I  said, 
stupidly.  "I,  for  one,  think  it  is  horrid.  A  woman 
must  have  lost  her  self-respect  to  do  such  a  thing." 

She  turned  her  head  a  little  in  my  direction,  and,  ex- 


MORNING  MISTS  US 

tricating  a  blonde  tortoise-shell  lorgnon  which  she  had 
stuck  in  her  bosom,  took  a  long  look  at  me  through  its 
lens. 

' '  You  are  from  .  .  .  er  .  .  .  the  neighborhood  of 
Boston,  are  you  not?"  she  asked. 

There  was  certainly  no  disgrace  in  being  from  the 
neighborhood  of  Boston  ;  but  somehow,  as  I  bowed  my 
assent,  I  felt  that  I  was  criminating  myself.  Her  tone 
had  managed  to  make  me  extremely  uncomfortable. 
Her  inquiry  seemed  to  hold  a  stigma. 

"And  in  Boston,  or  in  your  ...  er  ...  village, 
.  .  .  they  don't  have  such  dreadful  happenings?"  she 
asked,  with  an  amused  inflection. 

' '  I  don' t  live  in  a  village, ' '  I  stammered.  My  feet 
seemed  suddenly  to  look  queer  and  large,  and  I  noticed 
that  one  of  my  shoes  had  moulted  a  button.  I  tucked 
the  offender  under  my  chair,  and  in  so  doing  almost  lost 
my  balance  and  dropped  my  teacup. 

' '  Will  you  have  some  more  ?' '  she  asked,  suavely. 
"  Is  your  seat  uncomfortable ?  You  seem  so  restless." 

I  declined  the  tea,  tremblingly  put  down  my  china  cup, 
and  assured  her  that  my  seat  was  all  that  I  could  desire. 

"The  marriage  relation,"  she  went  on,  "is  so  intri- 
cate and  profound  that  we  have  not  yet  solved  it  here  ; 
but  I  dare  say  with  you  it's  all  made  clear,  and  that 
personally  you  understand  it  perfectly." 

I  fumbled  for  an  answer.  She  was  evidently  laugh- 
ing at  me  ;  yet  her  tone  was  so  grave  it  seemed  hardly 
credible.  I  began  to  feel,  however,  that  slovenly  talk 
and  breathless  opinions  had  better  be  avoided. 

' '  And  are  you  hard  at  work  ?' '  she  asked  by  and  by. 
' '  Bruce  was  speaking  of  you  to  me.  I  wish  you  could 
persuade  him  to  be  more  attentive  to  his  studies.  He's 
a  dear  fellow.  I  often  wonder  if  it  was  wise  for  him  to 


Ii6  MORNING  MISTS 

enter  the  mining-school.  I  doubt  if  engineering  is 
really  his  taste  and  vocation.  But  idleness  is  deplor- 
able for  young  men,  and  I  sometimes  regret  for  him 
that  he  will  have  money,  and  therefore  no  incentive  to 
work." 

' '  Fame  is  sweet, ' '  I  now  ventured,  determined  not 
to  appear  the  fool  she  must  be  thinking  me.  ' '  Surely 
money  need  not  prevent  us  from  its  pursuit." 

"  Poverty  is  a  force,"  she  said,  laconically. 

Her  dress  to  me  looked  like  a  sort  of  veiled  softness, 
falling  away  transparent  and  shimmering  from  her  el- 
bows and  white  wrists.  There  was  a  full-blown,  yellow- 
hearted  rose  near  her  throat,  above  the  vague  outline 
of  her  queenly  breast.  The  bust  was  firm,  not  large, 
and  her  gown  fell  from  beneath  those  half-globes  of 
ivory,  caught  in  a  quaint  Eastern  turquoise  clasp. 

' '  So, ' '  she  said,  after  a  short  pause,  ' '  you  think 
Lina  Drummond  has  made  a  fool  of  herself?"  She 
had  left  the  tea-table  and  had  come  over  to  a  sofa  near 
me. 

"I  don't  take  much  interest  in  such  things,"  I  mur- 
mured, "and  I  dare  say  I  don't  understand  them  ;  but 
I  believe,  when  a  woman's  married  a  man,  she  had 
better  stick  to  him  through  thick  and  thin." 

"And  this  would  be  your  advice  in  all  cases?" 

I  stared  at  her  blankly.     ' '  My  advice  ?' ' 

"Why,  yes  :  are  you  not  a  lawyer?" 

I  began  again  to  wonder  why  this  strange  young 
woman  was  making  persistent  fun  of  me.  "  A  budding 
one,"  I  answered,  blushing  and  laughing. 

"And  so  this  budding  lawyer  does  not  approve  of 
.  .  .  Lina?" 

"  I  have  not  followed  the  case,"  I  said,  with  labored 
dignity,  ' '  but  what  I  have  read  proved  to  me  pretty 


MORNING  MISTS  117 

clearly  that  Mrs.  Drummond  had  not  been  guiltless,  to 
say  the  least,  of  ...  imprudence." 

"  Mrs.  Drummond  is  a  friend  of  mine." 

"  I  am  sure  I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  answered,  a  little 
irritated.  How  could  I  tell  that  she  was  even  an 
acquaintance  ? 

' '  And  so  you  disapprove  of  ...  imprudence  ;  you 
consider  it  quite  heinous.  You  are  a  severe  moralist, 
Mr.  Innes.  I  trust  your  own  conscience  is  clear, 
since  it  is  so  harsh  a  judge.  Well,  perhaps  you  are 
right.  I  am  certain  there  are  women  who  must  have 
anchorage — even  if  it  be  in  mire ;  but  Lina  is  not  of 
these." 

"  Don't  you  think  you  are  a  little  unkind  to  me?"  I 
asked,  smiling. 

' '  Perhaps  when  you  know  me  better  you  may  think 
differently." 

' '  Shall  I  ever  know  you  better  ?' '  I  was  surprised 
at  my  own  temerity. 

"Why?" 

"Oh,  because,"  I  continued,  boldly,  although  my 
tongue  and  utterance  were  thick  with  agitation  and 
embarrassment,  ' '  I  have  not  now  the  slightest  idea 
whom  I  am  addressing ;  but  I  feel  sure  that  if  I  knew 
your  name  and  your  address  it  would  give  me  no  clue 
to  you  yourself, — that  no  one  could  ever  know  you 
well." 

"  Is  it  at  college  that  you  learned  to  say  such  delight- 
ful things  ?' '  she  asked,  taking  another  long  glance  in 
my  direction,  as  if  she  found  amusement  in  observing 
me.  People  of  discernment  are  fond  of  such  studies. 
I  was  a  willing  sacrifice. 

"No,"  I  answered,  "  I  have  learned  within  the  last 
fifteen  minutes." 


Il8  MORNING  MISTS 

1 '  You  must  be  very  intelligent,  then  ;  it  would  be 
almost  worth  while  to  undertake  your  education.  But, 
as  you  say  you  don't  know  me,  and  you  think  that  no 
one  ever  could,  would  not  you  who  are  so  wise  shrink 
from  drinking  at  a  spring  whose  source  you  have  not 
found  and  fathomed?  Would  it  be  quite  .  .  .  pru- 
dent?" 

"  Not  prudent  or  wise,"  I  said,  rashly,  still  astonished 
at  myself,  ' '  but  .  .  .  but  .  .  .  sweet !' ' 

' '  Really  ?  imprudent  and  dulcet !  A  pleasant  com- 
bination. I  wish  you  would  stay  here,  and  let  me  teach 
you  more  things  :  it  would  occupy  me,  for,  entre  nous, 
it  is  but  a  dull  place." 

"  I  suppose,"  I  said,  dropping  my  voice  into  a  lower 
and  more  familiar  key,  ' '  that  if  you  are  all  alone  here 
with  General  and  Mrs.  Pryor,  it  may  be  stupid  for  you, 
being  so  much  younger,  and  Bruce  here  so  little. ' ' 

' '  Yes,  the  Pryors  are  not  amusing,  and  I  am  devoured 
with  ennui.  But  you  don't  know  anything  about  that  ; 
you  are  too  young.  Ennui  usually  follows  great  desires 
or  emotions  ;  it  is  very  uncomfortable, — a  species  of 
disgust,  hardly  a  pain.  Neither  pleasure  nor  occupa- 
tion suffices  to  it.  It  craves  rapture,  and  this  is  just 
what  it  shall  not  find.  Even  its  melancholy  is  colorless. 
Of  ennui  is  born  the  taste  for  the  singular  and  the 
unique,  which  attracts  and  arrests,  sometimes,  as  much 
as  greatness.  Now,  I,  for  instance,  am  only  ennuyte, 
and  people  call  me  eccentric.  It  comes  to  us  when  all 
our  dreams  of  joy  are  over  and  there  is  no  further  hope 
of  remedy.  But,  as  I  say,  you  are  so  young,  you  have 
not  yet  reached  that  dreary  level  of  monotony." 

Had  I,  in  fact,  been  thirty  I  would  have  understood 
the  diabolic  coquetry  of  this  tirade  ;  but,  being  twenty, 
I  felt  my  heart  rise  and  almost  choke  me  in  revolt  and 


MORNING  MISTS  119 

pify  for  this  lovely  person  who  was  evidently  the  toy  of 
some  cruel  destiny.  I  know  not  what  declaration  of 
this  sort  I  should  have  been  idiotic  enough  to  make, 
had  Bruce  not  returned  at  the  moment  when  some  im- 
becility on  my  part  was  imminent.  I  felt  it  coming  on 
as  one  does  a  fit  of  the  ague. 

"  Halloo  !  my  darling,"  he  said,  taking  the  tall  lady 
in  his  arms,  "have  you  and  Innes  been  making  friends  ?" 
He  kissed  her  under  her  chin  and  rubbed  his  hands  on 
her  hair,  pulling  her  this  way  and  that.  And  then  I 
knew  that  this  divine  being  was  no  other  than  my 
friend's  mother.  She  laughed  very  heartily  at  my 
discomfiture,  and  so  did  Bruce,  and  I  joined  in  their 
laughter,  albeit  less  effusively. 

"You  were  so  perfectly  unconscious,"  she  said,  a 
little  later,  laughing  again  from  her  full,  round  throat. 
' '  It  was  so  absurd. ' ' 

The  t£te-&-t£te  thus  rudely  broken  was  not  to  be 
resumed  that  night.  A  few  moments  later  General 
Pryor  and  his  little  boy,  a  pretty  child  of  eight,  joined 
us.  He  was  one  of  those  ' '  show ' '  children,  such  as 
I  could  never  have  been  at  any  age,  picturesquely  clad 
in  velvet  and  lace  bravery,  with  a  pair  of  soft  eyes,  and 
bright  hair  adown  his  shoulders. 

The  lady  of  the  house  returned  to  her  low  seat  at  the 
tea-table,  and  proffered  to  her  husband  and  eldest  son 
a  steaming  cup,  while  she  gave  Ruthven — this  was  the 
child's  name — a  bit  of  cake  and  a  taste  of  milk. 

Ruthven  and  I  became  fast  friends  in  those  few  days 
that  I  spent  near  him.  He  used  to  play  with  my  watch 
while  I  made  paper  boats  for  him,  and  little  men  and 
women  out  of  my  pocket-handkerchief. 

On  this  evening,  sitting  about  the  tea-table,  I  had 
ample  time  to  contemplate  the  family  group.  It  was 


120  MORNING  MISTS 

certainly  a  striking  one.  General  Pry  or  was  a  man 
of  about  fifty.  He  had  a  dark,  red-brown  moustache  ; 
his  hair  was  gray.  He  was  tall  and  stout,  with  a 
pleasant  blue  eye  and  regular  features.  Towards  me 
his  manner  was  genial,  courteous,  even  cordial.  He 
was  an  uncommonly  handsome  man,  but  the  expression 
of  his  face,  I  noticed  almost  immediately,  was  one  of 
profound  melancholy.  He  stood  now  against  the  mantel- 
piece, toying  with  his  spoon,  sipping  his  tea,  looking 
down  on  the  heads  of  his  wife  and  little  son  smilingly, 
but  his  smile  did  not  reach  his  eyes.  The  boy  had 
seated  himself  on  the  floor,  at  his  mother's  feet,  and 
was  playing  with  the  head  of  a  huge  wolf-skin  which 
lay  under  her  feet ;  while  Bruce,  from  his  usual  favorite 
vantage-ground,  the  table,  did  not  for  a  moment  lose 
that  air  of  distinction  which  so  markedly  characterized 
him.  Wherein  distinction  lies  has  always  baffled  me  ; 
it  baffles  the  world.  That  Bruce  possessed  it  no  one 
will  gainsay. 

Looking  at  this  happy  family  picture,  I  felt  isolated, 
a  little  left  out  in  the  cold  ;  and  then  I  was  still  smarting 
from  the  blunders  I  had  so  innocently  committed.  I 
felt  cross  with  Bruce  and  with  myself. 

This,  then,  was  a  mother  too  !  Great  Caesar' s  ghost ! 
She  belonged  to  a  type  that  was  not  familiar  to  me, 
nor  common  from  whence  I  came.  She  was  a  mother, 
and  had  even  been  twice  a  wife.  It  seemed  impossible, 
incomprehensible,  almost  unpleasant.  What !  the  mor- 
bidezza  of  that  smooth  skin,  the  unwrinkled  marble  of 
that  haughty  brow,  at  once  so  tender  and  courageous, 
the  cool  limpidity  of  those  wide  pupils,  had  passed 
through  all  this  experience  ? 

I  would  not  believe  it. 

Then — as  ever  afterwards — this  lady  remained  for  me 


MORNING  MISTS  121 

the  enigma  which  even  an  CEdipus  must  needs  have 
died  to  unravel. 

Had  I  not  with  a  curious  prescience  told  her  in  that 
first  half-hour  that  she  was  unknowable  ? 


II. 

BEFORE  the  dinner  two  or  three  guests,  country 
neighbors,  lingering,  like  the  Pryors,  late  from  their 
city  homes,  arrived.  I  believe  that  one  of  these  guests, 
a  young  married  woman,  was  extremely  pretty,  and 
that  the  men  were  as  agreeable  as  the  average  diner- 
out.  To  me  they  were  absolutely  insignificant.  Mrs. 
Pryor  received  them  in  a  simple  white  toilet.  If  she 
had  looked  young  in  the  fire-light,  she  looked  still 
younger  now,  albeit  her  type  of  beauty  was  not  the 
girlish  one.  General  Pryor  did  the  honors  with  hospi- 
table good  breeding.  Now  and  then  I  noticed  that  he 
looked  athwart  the  flowers,  which  separated  them,  at 
his  wife,  and  that  his  eyes  rested  upon  hers  with  a 
peculiar  solicitude, —I  can  find  no  other  word  to  de- 
scribe an  expression  whose  meaning  eluded  me, — and 
each  time  he  did  so  I  remarked  the  sadness  in  his  other- 
wise calm,  impassive  face.  She  spoke  to  him  lightly, 
gayly,  as  I  had  heard  often  other  wives  speak  to  other 
husbands  ;  and  with  Bruce  she  was  affectionate  and 
playful.  She  appeared  in  excellent  spirits,  and  was  the 
life  of  the  banquet,  an  exquisite  little  feast  whose  every 
detail  breathed  of  her  own  delicacy. 

I  was  very  silent,  partly  through  an  unconquerable 
shyness  which  possessed  and  well-nigh  overpowered 
me,  silencing  my  tongue  and  paralyzing  my  nerves  ever 
since  the  afternoon  ;  partly  because  I  could  not  shake 
off  the  memory  of  Mrs.  Pryor' s  last  words  of  our  t£te- 


122  MORNING  MISTS 

d,-tete.  But  the  ennui  and  disillusion  of  which  she  had 
then  complained  seemed  to  be  alike  lost  sight  of  to- 
night. 

A  respite,  after  coffee  and  a  chasse  were  served,  was 
passed  by  the  men  in  smoking,  and  by  the  ladies  in 
conversation.  When  we  rejoined  them,  Mrs.  Pryor 
and  her  two  neighbors,  young  married  women,  were 
about  the  piano,  in  the  more  distant  boudoir.  They 
were  looking  over  some  music  and  pressing  Mrs.  Pryor 
to  sing  to  them.  She  refused  decidedly  at  first,  but 
suddenly  relented.  She  seated  herself  at  the  piano, 
and,  accompanying  herself,  began  a  barcarolle  in  that 
pretty  Venetian  dialect  which  seems  created  for  the 
mouth  of  children  : 

Coi  pensieri  malinconici 

No  te  star  a  tormentar ; 
Vien  con  mi,  montemo  in  gondola, 

Andremo  in  mezo  al  mar. 

Ti  xe  bella,  ti  xe  zovane, 

Ti  xe  fresca  come  un  fior  ; 
Vien  per  tutte  le  su'  lagreme, 

Ridi  adesso  e  fa  1'  amor. 

When  she  had  finished  she  sighed.  "Oh,  Italia," 
she  murmured,  "  I  was  happy  then  !" 

Her  contralto  voice  was,  like  everything  else  about 
her,  peculiar.  It  floated  through  the  room  like  the 
plaintive  farewell  of  a  heart  lost  in  space.  This  is  the 
way  it  impressed  me.  I  only  record  the  feeling ;  I 
make  no  comment  upon  it.  I  was  young  and  ingenu- 
ous, and  to  my  ears  was  given  a  keenness  which  has 
since  been  dispelled.  It  is  possible,  however,  that  my 
friend's  mother  may  have  sung  like  a  hundred  other 
women,  or  even  less  well.  She  decisively  refused  to 


MORNING  MISTS  123 

give  us  more,  replying  to  the  urgency  of  her  guests 
that  she  was  "not  in  the  mood."  She  seemed,  how- 
ever, in  the  mood  for  talk.  To  me  she  appeared  very 
brilliant ;  yet,  although  she  said  striking  things,  I  have 
often  asked  myself  since  if  Mrs.  Pryor  was  really  clever. 
I  do  not  know. 

A  statuette  of  Canova's  led  the  conversation  to  him, 
to  his  art.  Mrs.  Pryor  told  us  about  a  sojourn  she  had 
once  made  in  the  valley  of  Pausanio,  a  fit  abode  of 
genius,  she  said.  She  had  often  wandered  where  the 
poor  boy  must  have  wandered,  and  pictured  him  look- 
ing over  that  Italy  which  was  so  regally  to  crown  him. 
What  were  the  boy's  hopes  and  fears  ?  Did  he  already 
see  before  him  in  his  dreams  the  nude  beauty  of  a  Pau- 
line Borghese  ?  She  told  us  of  the  temple  of  Canova, 
that  exact  reproduction  of  the  Roman  Pantheon,  but 
which  the  frosts,  alas !  had  already  injured.  She 
thought  the  group  at  Christ's  tomb  his  coldest  thought, 
the  least  inspired.  "  I  am  afraid,"  she  said,  turning  to 
the  Cupid  and  Psyche,  "  he  was  a  pagan,  after  all." 

She  spoke  of  modern  art  and  its  fantastic  quality,  its 
want  of  color,  and  its  note  of  unhealthiness.  Ah,  well, 
she  for  herself  thought  that  there  was  nothing  like  a 
life  free  from  all  ambitions,  all  desires.  "  I  don't  wish 
it  for  my  sons,"  she  added,  "but  for  me  .  .  .  it  suffices. " 
Her  little  entourage  listened  to  her  words  like  people 
accustomed  to  do  her  homage,  enthralled,  a  little  as- 
tonished. 

When  she  spoke  of  herself  I  instinctively  turned  to 
look  at  her  husband,  but  found  that  he  had  left  the 
room.  I  saw  his  tall  form,  now  and  then,  passing  and 
repassing  a  window,  as  he  paced  the  long  piazza 
smoking  in  the  cold  moonlit  night. 

After  the  guests  had  gone  and  the  good-nights  had 


124  MORNING  MISTS 

been  exchanged,  Bruce  and  I  indulged  in  a  cigarette 
up  in  my  room,  where  a  wood  fire  dispensed  its  genial 
welcome.  Bruce,  in  those  days,  was  in  love  ;  and  for 
the  hundredth  time  a  certain  letter  which  his  beloved 
had  written  to  him  was  parleyed  over,  weighed,  dis- 
cussed, dissected,  and  I  was  bidden  discover  hidden 
meanings  of  which,  I  confess,  the  writer  was  probably 
as  innocent  as  I  was.  The  girl  was  a  certain  Tessie 
Vaux,  considered  a  belle  and  wit  in  the  university  town 
where  we  had  won  our  laurels.  She  was,  in  fact,  what 
college  belles  are  apt  to  be,  an  ordinary  young  person, 
with  a  good  deal  of  aplomb  and  an  excellent  opinion  of 
herself.  Her  pristine  innocence  had  somewhat  suffered 
in  a  series  of  rather  coarse  love  escapades  with  two  or 
three  roughly  adoring  students.  She  was  fairly  pretty, 
"made  eyes"  indiscriminately,  laughed  a  great  deal, 
and  wzisfaa/e,  but  Bruce  insisted  that  he  loved  her.  I 
think  he  was  trying  to  assure  himself  that  he  did  so. 
We  go  on  saying  a  thing  of  ourselves  long  after  it  has 
ceased  to  be  true,  from  the  force  of  habit ;  and  Bruce 
had  been  insisting  upon  this  with  unnecessary  vehe- 
mence for  more  than  a  year. 

I  remember  this  evening,  when  I  was  called  upon  to 
sympathize  with  the  violence  of  his  passion  and  to  be 
revolted  at  the  depths  of  the  young  lady's  perfidy — 
which  I  was  expected  to  combat — I  became  conscious 
of  an  extreme  mental  lassitude.  I  even  felt  inclined  to 
agree  with  him  that  he  had  been  extremely  ill-used  ; 
which  was  not  at  all  what  he  had  come  to  my  room  for. 
The  love-confidences  of  the  immature  form  one  of  the 
most  dispiriting,  fatiguing,  and  absurd  of  all  life's  ex- 
periences. I  had,  however,  not  yet  reached  the  age 
when  one  would  walk  ten  miles  to  escape  them.  The 
thing  itself  is  so  foolish  !  And  one  has  to  look  so 


MORNING  MISTS  125 

grave  !  As  a  woman  once  said  to  me  of  her  growing 
sons,  "And  oh  !  those  terrible  love-affairs  !" 

Suddenly  now  Bruce' s  passionnette  seemed  to  have 
dwindled  into  tedious  and  trivial  insignificance.  I  found 
that  I  was  forcing  myself  to  listen  to  the  oft-reiterated 
story  with  ill-disguised  restlessness  and  wavering  atten- 
tion, until  my  good-natured  companion,  evidently  not 
finding  the  usual  responsiveness,  rose,  and  said,  "Well, 
old  fellow,  I  guess  I'll  turn  in  now." 

He  glanced,  as  he  moved  towards  the  door,  at  a 
portrait  of  his  step-father  which  hung  over  the  mantel- 
piece. ' '  He' s  devoted  to  my  mother, ' '  he  said.  ' '  He' s 
splendid  !"  And  with  those  words,  picking  up  his 
letters  and  photographs,  he  got  himself  off. 

It  was  very  late.  I  prepared  to  seek  my  bed  ;  but  I 
had  fallen  into  the  bad  habit  of  nocturnal  reading,  and 
looked  about  for  a  book, — a  novel  which  I  had  heard 
much  discussed,  and  which  I  thought  I  had  left  upon 
my  table.  I  did  not  find  it,  however,  and  suddenly 
remembered  that  it  was  down-stairs,  in  Mrs.  Pryor's 
boudoir,  where  I  had  held  it  for  a  moment  in  my  hands. 
I  therefore  decided,  as  sleep  seemed  not  imminent,  to 
descend  in  search  of  it.  I  stepped  softly,  not  to  dis- 
turb the  slumbering  household,  carrying  my  candle 
aloft  in  my  hand.  When  I  reached  the  hall  a  gust  of 
wind  from  an  open  window  blew  it  out.  The  servants 
had  extinguished  the  lamps.  I  found  myself,  except 
for  one  moonbeam  which  fell  across  my  feet,  in  almost 
entire  obscurity.  I  crept,  however,  to  the  boudoir 
door,  which  was  ajar.  I  pushed  it  open  and  closed  it 
gently  behind  me,  thrusting,  as  I  did  so,  my  fingers  in 
my  pocket  in  search  of  my  match-box.  But  as  I 
looked  up  I  become  aware  not  only  that  I  was  not  in 
total  darkness,  but  that  I  was  not  alone.  The  apart- 

11* 


126  MORNING  MISTS 

merit  in  which  I  stood  was  itself  deserted,  but  through 
the  curtain  which  half  concealed  the  door-way  the  light 
of  a  lamp  streamed,  and  voices  came  distinctly  to  my 
ears.  I  made  a  step  forward  to  announce  myself.  It 
was  not  in  my  character  or  traditions  to  sneak  or  hide, 
even  less  to  be  an  eavesdropper.  Why  was  it,  then, 
that  I  found  myself  powerless  to  move,  stir,  or  speak  ? 
That  curious  shyness  which  had  invaded  me  at  the 
table  overcame  me  once  again,  and  I  found  that  I  could 
only  count  narrow,  immediate,  and  personal  expedi- 
ency. The  ultimate  of  a  false  position  had  to  be  ac- 
cepted, drowned,  in  the  mauvaise  honte  which  dissuaded 
me  from  boldly  stepping  forth  into  the  light.  I  should 
be  importunate,  ridiculous,  grotesque,  and  a  pair  of 
ironical,  derisive  if  beautiful  eyes  would  not  be  slow  in 
making  me  aware  of  the  fact.  Something  whispered  to 
me,  ' '  Beware  of  the  high,  and  hold  on  to  the  safe  !' ' 
I  "held  on,"  and  remained  concealed. 

The  other  room  was  bathed  in  light  and  revealed 
clearly  its  occupants ;  they  were  General  and  Mrs. 
Pryor.  I  can  still  see  them  in  detail,  minutely,  like 
two  photogravures  imprinted  on  my  retina  and  brain. 
Curiosity  sapped  what  was  left  to  me  of  honor  ;  I  stood, 
I  heard,  a  prey  to  a  mutinous  impatience,  yet  soon 
breathless  with  a  first  revelation  of  life's  unseen,  un- 
guessed  abysses. 

In  the  first  triumph  of  wrong-doing  right  suffers 
discouragement.  Let  those  who  blame  me  for  having 
remained  lift  up  their  hands,  question  their  own  hearts, 
and  be  sure  that  their  hiding-places  flash  not  upon 
them  to  reveal  terrible  hypocrisies. 

The  lamp  shone  keenly  upon  my  host  and  hostess. 
She  was  leaning  against  the  mantel-piece,  her  back  to 
the  flame,  while  he,  confronting  her,  was  a  few  paces 


MORNING  MIS  TS  127 

nearer  to  me.  Her  elegant  silhouette  was  brought  into 
strong  relief  against  the  background  of  the  fire.  The 
mantel-shelf  behind  her  was  heaped  with  roses. 

Her  husband's  stern  profile  was  projected  against  the 
draperies  of  a  rich,  dark  curtain. 


III. 

FIVE  seconds  had  not  elapsed  when  I  became  per- 
fectly aware  that  I  was  assisting  at  no  commonplace 
interview  between  these  two  people. 

It  was  Mrs.  Pryor  who  was  speaking  :  "A  first  mis- 
take may  be  a  youthful  folly,  born  of  inexperience ;  a 
second  one  is  a  crime."  She  spoke  in  trembling  ac- 
cents, and  did  not  raise  her  eyelids. 

' '  But  why  a  mistake  ?' '  said  General  Pryor.  He 
spoke  quietly,  but  there  was  a  note  of  agitation  in  his 
tone.  ' '  What  do  you  desire  ?  What  do  you  ask  of  me 
that  I  can  give, — that  I  have  not  given  ?  You  bade  me 
leave  the  army  ;  it  was  the  career  of  my  choice,  the 
only  thing  I  was  good  for, — made  for.  I  gave  it  up  to 
your  caprice." 

"You  do  well,"  she  said,  bowing  her  head  on  her 
breast,  "to  remind  me  of  your  sacrifices." 

"  I  do  what  I  can  ;  I  am  but  human." 

"You  were  a  god  to  me,  I  know,  ...  at  first,"  she 
faltered. 

"No,  I  was  no  god;  I  am  a  man."  He  moved  a 
step  nearer  to  her. 

She  raised  her  head  quickly,  darting  a  look  as  of 
fear  into  his  face.  ' '  What  will  you  have  me  to  do  ?' ' 
she  asked,  clasping  her  hands  together  and  wringing 
them. 

"  Ah  !"  he  cried,  "love  me  a  little." 


128  MORNING   MISTS 

Her  head  fell  forward  again  upon  her  breast,  and  she 
remained  speechless. 

"  You  were  not  always  so  passionless,"  he  continued. 
"  Do  you  remember  the  evening  .  .  .  ' 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  remember."  And  I  thought 
that  she  shivered  :  it  may  have  been  my  fancy. 

"Have  you  anything  to  accuse  me  of?"  She  did 
not  answer. 

He  moved  to  her  and  took  one  of  her  hands.  It 
seemed  to  lie  lifeless  and  limp  in  his  own.  He  leaned 
over  it,  looking  at  it  curiously.  Then  he  drew  from 
the  fourth  finger  a  diamond  ring  which  he  slipped  on 
one  of  his  own.  There  was  another  circlet  left  upon 
her  hand,  however,  a  plain  gold  one.  He  pushed  it  up 
and  down  two  or  three  times  along  her  long  white 
finger ;  and  as  he  did  so  he  gazed  at  her  keenly. 
' '  Why  do  you  still  wear  it  ?' '  he  asked. 

"I  am  Ruthven's  mother." 

"And  my  wife, — mine;  do  you  hear?  This  hand 
is  mine, — mine!"  He  crushed  and  wrung  it.  "And 
you  are  my  child's  mother  ;  so,  do  what  you  will,  a 
link  binds  you  to  me,  a  bondage  if  you  will,  but  your 
fate.  Resist  it  as  you  may,  you  cannot  escape  it." 
He  looked  at  her  almost  fiercely ;  his  lips  trembled, 
his  breath  came  quickly  through  his  dark  moustache. 

"You  would  not  take  the  child  from  me?"  she  said, 
in  a  frightened  whisper. 

He  dropped  her  hand  as  if  it  were  a  snake  that  had 
stung  his.  "My  God!"  There  was  a  long  pause; 
then,  turning  from  her,  "Good-night,"  he  said,  and 
left  her  alone.  I  heard  him  go  heavily  up-stairs  two 
flights,  and  then,  in  the  silence,  turn  a  lock,  enter  a 
room,  and  close  a  door.  Its  bang  shook  the  windows 
of  the  old  house,  resounding  and  echoing  through  the 


MORNING  MISTS  129 

sleeping  corridors ;  so  ...  only  Mrs.  Pryor  and  I 
were  left.  I  was  now  so  fearful  that  she  would  know 
of  my  presence  that  my  very  heart-beats  were  a  pain 
to  me,  and  I  held  my  breath  almost  to  suffocation.  She 
flung  up  her  arms  over  her  head,  and  gave  an  exclama- 
tion which  seemed  full  of  ineffable  weariness.  She  then 
turned  and  laid  her  cheek  upon  the  mantel-shelf,  among 
the  white  roses  which  were  not  more  pale.  I  do  not 
know  how  long  we  both  remained  immovable,  I  still 
watching  her  from  my  dark  hiding-place.  After  a  little 
while  she  gave  another  smothered  sigh,  and  murmured, 
"This  infinite,  raging  heart-hunger,  and  nothing, — 
nothing  !"  Then,  passing  her  fingers  over  her  brow, 
she  advanced  to  the  burning  lamp,  turned  it  out  sud- 
denly, and  vanished  in  the  darkness.  Again  I  heard 
the  ascent,  this  time  of  a  light,  womanly  step,  the  swish 
of  draperies,  a  moment's  pause  upon  the  landing,  a 
door  pushed  open  and  closed. 

I  felt  that  what  I  had  done  was  sacrilegious,  but  it 
was  too  late.  I  waited  only  a  few  moments,  then  fur- 
tively sought  once  more  my  apartment. 

The  next  morning  Bruce  and  I  had  our  coffee  served 
to  us  in  his  study,  a  pleasant  little  room  which  adjoined 
his  bed-chamber.  At  ten  o'  clock  we  were  already  on 
the  tennis-ground.  General  Pryor,  I  was  told,  had 
taken  an  early  train  to  West  Point,  to  meet  some  old 
army  friends  of  his  who  were  there  for  a  day  or  two. 
Mrs.  Pryor  had  not  appeared.  At  about  eleven,  how- 
ever, she  came  across  the  lawn  to  join  us.  She  called 
out  to  me,  "  Oh,  Mr.  Innes  !  Will  you  drive  with  me 
in  fifteen  minutes  ?  I  have  ordered  the  village  cart,  and 
will  take  you  over  to  the  Sawmill  valley. ' ' 

My  heart  gave  a  thump  ;  I  threw  down  my  bat 
and  hurried  to  her  side.  ' '  I  can  be  ready  directly, ' ' 


130  MORNING  MISTS 

I  said,  mopping  my  forehead,  "and  I  will  be  de- 
lighted." 

' '  Very  well ;  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  please  meet  me 
on  the  porch."  And  she  passed  quickly  on  to  speak 
to  her  son. 

It  was  only  when  seated  in  the  carriage  beside  her 
that  I  could  take  another  look  at  her.  Why  is  it  that 
wifehood  and  motherhood,  these  mysteries  of  life,  seem 
to  leave  no  trace  upon  some  women  ?  Nay,  their  pain 
and  trouble,  transports  and  joys,  alike  pass  over  them, 
leaving  a  certain  virginity  of  soul  which  can  be  felt,  not 
described.  Mrs.  Pryor  was  one  of  these.  I  could  not 
now  possibly  picture  her  in  any  of  those  intimate  mo- 
ments when  Proteus  would  have  cried  to  her, — 

And  I  remember  that  on  such  a  day 

I  found  thee  with  eyes  bleared  and  cheeks  all  pale, 

And  lips  that  trembled  to  a  voiceless  cry, 

And  that  thy  bosom  in  my  bosom  lay. 

For  of  last  night  not  a  trace, — none.  I  asked  my- 
self if  it  were  not  all  a  chimera,  a  dream  born  of  fevered 
unreality.  Yet,  albeit  she  had  about  her  this  curious 
aroma  of  the  unapproachable  and  not  proven,  by  a 
strange  paradox  never  was  the  sense  of  sex  so  strong 
as  when  in  Mrs.  Pryor' s  vicinity.  There  detached  itself 
from  her  broidered  vest  a  subtle  fluid  which  pierced  my 
being  with  a  pang.  I  sat  close  to  her  skirts,  in  a  state 
of  admiration  and  subserviency,  at  once  mute  and 
amazed.  Our  way  lay  for  a  short  distance  on  the  main 
road  or  highway,  but  in  a  few  minutes  we  had  turned 
into  a  quiet  cross-lane.  In  summer  it  must  have  been 
luxuriant  of  shadow.  Even  now  it  was  sheltered  by  the 
trees  whose  trunks  were  half  hidden  under  the  shining, 
verdant,  vagrant  laurels.  The  freshness,  the  perfume, 
the  melodies  of  nature  linger  in  the  Indian  summer 


MORNING  MISTS  131 

days,  filling  the  veins  with  keen,  sensuous  delights, 
tinged  as  these  last  hours  of  autumn  are  with  mortal 
languor.  The  haze  lay  like  a  veil  upon  the  dark  valley, 
and  the  nearer  low  hills  covered  with  brown  furze  and 
brushwood.  Their  russet  hues  made  a  trenchant  con- 
trast to  an  indistinct  gray  sky.  I  looked  at  my  com- 
panion, and  for  the  first  half-mile  I  could  find  no  word 
to  say  to  her.  She  had  her  hands  full  with  the  spirited 
sorrel  mare  she  was  driving,  and  did  not  seem  herself 
inclined  to  much  conversation. 

The  relief  of  thought  is  action.  I  found  mine  in 
speech  :  it  was  terribly  young.  ' '  How  beautiful  you 
are  !' '  I  said  to  her. 

She  laughed  :  she  was  evidently  not  displeased.  "An 
old  woman  like  me,"  she  said,  touching  the  mare's 
neck  with  her  whip.  ' '  Why,  I  am  thirty-eight !' '  Last 
evening  her  eyes  had  seemed  to  me  profound  wells  in 
which  death  might  lurk.  They  glanced  at  me  now 
coquettishly  and  almost  merrily. 

' '  One  may  ask  a  woman' s  age, ' '  I  said,  flushing, 
"but  a  goddess  is  immortal." 

"  Very  prettily  said,"  she  replied,  still  smiling,  "  but 
I  assure  you  that  I  am  no  goddess  ;  only  a  good,  ordi- 
nary person,  devoted  to  my  household  and  its  interests, 
my  husband,  my  son,  my  baby,  jogging  on  to  middle 
life,  content  and  happy.  How  can  you  make  a  heroine 
of  mef" 

"Because,"  I  replied,  "you  are  not  only  a  goddess, 
but  you  are  the  first  woman  I  have  ever  met." 

"And  you  like  the  sensation,  eh?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"What  is  it  like,  pray?" 

"  It  is  like  .  .  .  like  .  .  .  dying !" 

"Oh,  dear  me  !"     Then,  after  a  pause,  "And  didn't 


132  MORNING  MISTS 

the  girls  at  your  college  make  you  feel  like  .  .  .  like 
.  .  .  dying?" 

"  I  didn't  even  know  any  of  them." 

"  Oh,  then  you  can't  tell." 

"Yes,  I  can  ;  they  were  rag  dolls." 

"And  I  am  not  a  rag  doll.  Much  obliged  for  the 
compliment." 

"Mrs.  Pry  or?" 

"Mr.  Innes." 

' '  Which  do  you  think  we  are  punished  for  the  most 
in  this  world,  our  follies  or  our  crimes  ?' ' 

She  gave  a  little  jerk  to  the  reins  and  looked  at  me 
narrowly,  but  I  managed  a  stout  front. 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  want  you  to  take  an  interest  in  me,  to 
give  me  advice." 

"What  about?" 

"Anything  you  like  ;  I  need  it  about  everything." 

' '  I  will  answer  your  question  :  I  think  what  we  are 
punished  the  most  severely  for  is  doing  our  duty.  Ah  ! 
the  limits  of  correctness  of  conduct  are  so  soon  reached, 
so  easily  set  for  us  by  others  !  I  never  did  my  duty 
but  once,  and  I  have  been  persecuted  ever  since." 

' '  Where  I  come  from  the  '  moral  sense'  is  pre-emi- 
nent, duty  is  a  big  thing.  Then  you  advise  a  fellow  to 
let  duty  slip?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  ;  I  was  thinking  of  women.  If  I 
had  a  daughter,  she  should  not  know  the  meaning  of  the 
word.  With  sons  it  is  different.  Boys  must  be  whipped 
into  shape.  Mine  adore  me  ;  that  is  the  essential. ' ' 

I  confess  I  was  somewhat  aghast.  These  were  not 
the  tenets  of  my  bringing  up.  "Most  children,"  she 
went  on,  ' '  hate  or  fear  their  parents  and  constantly  de- 
ceive them.  Mine  love  me,  and  have  no  secrets  from 


MORNING  MISTS  133 

me.  Bruce  has  even  told  me  all  about  the  Vaux  girl ; 
she  is  quite  dreadful,  is  not  she  ?' ' 

I  admitted  that  to  me  she  was  ' '  dreadful. ' ' 

"  Bruce  is  all  over  it,"  she  said.  "  He  only  thinks 
it  well  to  keep  up  the  whimper." 

"  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  Bruce." 

"  Whom  do  you  want  to  talk  about?" 

"You." 

' '  Pshaw  !  I  gave  you  the  epitome  of  my  career. 
Tell  me  something  about  yourself." 

"I  am  the  youngest  and  ugliest  of  my  mother's 
eight  children.  That  is  all  there  is  to  tell." 

' '  You  are  ugly,  but  decidedly  I  like  your  appearance. 
You  are  broad-shouldered,  and  you  look  honest." 

I  felt  inclined  to  tell  her  that  I  was  all  hers, — my  legs 
would  run  to  do  her  errands,  my  arms  were  at  her  ser- 
vice to  do  her  bidding, — but  I  had  a  second  attack  of 
timidity,  which  I  had  lost  only  for  a  moment. 

"  No,"  she  continued,  after  a  moment's  pause, 
"  there  is  only  one  thing  you  must  guard  against :  don't 
miss  your  life." 

"Why,  .  .  .  naturally!" 

' '  I  mean  in  its  emotional  side,  its  affections.  That 
is  the  great  miss ;  all  the  rest  is  nothing.  The  world 
doesn't  belong  to  cold  hearts,  don't  you  believe  it. 
That  is  a  fallacy.  Dare  to  feel, — to  express  it :  that  is 
everything." 

"  It  is  my  nature  to  be  reticent." 

' '  Ah  !  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it :  it  is  that  which  has 
ruined  many  lives.  I  am  reticent  too  :  it  has  ruined 
mine." 

' '  We'  11  stop  and  see  my  mother, ' '  she  said  by  and 
by,  when  we  had  turned  to  come  home.  We  neared 
the  broad  mansion,  hidden  amid  its  trees,  before  whose 

12 


134  MORNING  MISTS 

marble  portals  the  grass-sward  still  remained  mossy  and 
green  in  spite  of  the  late  season.  We  were  ushered 
through  two  or  three  elegant  drawing-rooms  into  the 
presence  of  Mrs.  Durant,  Bruce' s  grandmother.  We 
found  this  lady  alone  by  the  fire,  with  an  elderly  gen- 
tleman whom  she  and  her  daughter  called  "Admiral." 
He  looked  like  a  well-preserved  Frenchman,  vivacious, 
polite,  polished,  and  sawed  the  air  with  one  hand  when 
he  spoke,  as  if  keeping  at  bay  some  invisible  enemy, 
possibly  old  age. 

Mrs.  Durant  seemed  almost  as  youthful  as  her 
daughter  in  figure  and  movements.  There  was  a  strange 
bloom  upon  her  cheeks,  which  my  naivet&  at  first  ac- 
cepted as  the  remains  of  a  departed  youth,  and  which 
seemed  to  lend  lustre  to  her  dark  eye.  When  she  ac- 
companied us  to  the  door,  however,  its  cruel  revela- 
tions suggested  that  the  color  of  her  complexion,  and 
also  that  of  her  hair,  was  somewhat  apocryphal.  She 
was  extremely  animated,  almost  febrile  in  her  vivacity, 
in  contrast  to  Mrs.  Pryor's  extreme  repose  ;  but  she  was 
not  devoid  of  a  certain  grace  and  dignity,  as  of  a  woman 
accustomed  to  the  world. 

After  having  just  touched  her  lips  to  her  daughter's 
cheek,  ' '  Shall  you  not  go  to  the  reception  for  the 
French  frigate?"  she  asked.  "The  admiral  is  per- 
suading me  to  arrange  a  party." 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Pryor,  "  I  shall  not  go." 

' '  Why  not,  my  daughter  ?  It  is  absurd  the  way  you 
mope. — Try,"  she  said,  "Mr.  Innes,"  turning  to  me, 
' '  to  persuade  Bruce  to  insist  that  his  mamma  goes  down 
with  me.  I  shall  ask  the  Laurences,  the  Gardiners, 
and  some  men.  I  am  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Durant,  laugh- 
ing, "  I  often  wonder  how  you  are  a  daughter  of  mine  at 
•all.  At  your  age  I  was  always  in  everything.  I  never 


MORNING  MISTS  135 

was  content  unless  on  the  crest  of  the  wave.  You  are 
an  oddity.  You  must  shake  yourself  up,  Claire ;  you 
have  got  no  ambition." 

' '  No, ' '  said  Mrs.  Pryor.      ' '  I  have  none. ' ' 

"Mrs.  Pryor  has  'arrived,'  "  said  the  admiral,  gal- 
lantly. "She  has  attained  everything." 

"Thanks,"  said  Mrs.  Pryor,  smiling,  albeit  a  little 
coldly. 

"Yes,"  continued  the  admiral,  "Mrs.  Pryor  may 
say,  with  Sardou's  heroine,  '  Oh,  monsieur,  I  was 
already  discovered  !'  that  is  done." 

The  visit  was  a  short  one,  and  then  we  drove  home- 
wards. It  was  only  a  sixth  of  a  mile,  and  there  were 
but  two  or  three  words  said.  "You  look,"  she  said, 
"as  if  you  had  been  well  brought  up.  I  am  sure  you 
have  a  good  mother." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "she  is,  in  fact,  very  good." 

"And  I,"  she  murmured  under  her  breath,  "have 
had  no  mother."  And  just  then  I  looked  at  her,  and 
our  eyes  met,  and  I  felt  that  I  wished  I  might  die  for 
her ;  but,  as  my  eyes  are  small,  fishy,  and  opaque,  I 
doubt  if  she  read  in  them  these  interesting  announce- 
ments, or  fathomed  the  intensity  of  my  emotions.  She 
would  probably  have  thought  them  absurd  ;  I  myself 
realize  that  they  were  insensate. 

Well,  I  remained  only  two  days  longer,  but  when  I 
had  bidden  farewell  to  my  friend's  mother  I  was  des- 
perately in  love  with  her,  and  I  think  she  knew  it.  I 
think  she  was  a  person  who  had  the  energy  of  exact 
conclusions. 

IV. 

THERE  can  be  nothing  particularly  edifying  in  a  de- 
tailed, minute  record  of  the  extraordinary  passion  which 


136  MORNING  MISTS 

for  many  long  months  consumed  me.  I  have  always 
remembered  it  with  astonishment,  but  never  with  shame. 
Nothing  could  have  been  less  shameful.  If  its  senti- 
ments shook  my  senses  and  fired  my  imagination,  the 
aliments  which  these  received  were  so  meagre,  the  diet 
was  so  strict  and  lean,  that  the  veriest  ascetic  could  not 
have  begrudged  me  its  strange  hallucinations.  It  did 
little  harm  to  anybody  else.  I  must  confess,  however, 
that  while  it  lasted  it  ravaged  me.  The  Pryors  moved 
into  their  city  home  in  good  season.  My  career  was  a 
serious  and  arduous  one,  while  Bruce  was  a  butterfly 
of  pleasure.  He  dropped  soon  into  a  gay,  rollicking  set 
of  fellows,  who  spent  more  money  than  I  could  have 
commanded,  and  whose  tastes  and  habits  were  not  my 
own.  I  had  no  taste  for  dissipation,  was  always  some- 
thing of  a  plodder.  Bruce' s  friends  seemed  to  me 
foolish  and  wild  ;  they  thought  me  dull  and  slow.  We 
were  supremely  uncongenial. 

Mrs.  Pryor  I  met  occasionally,  twice  at  the  opera, 
once  at  a  ball.  Once  I  dined  at  her  house.  When  I 
called  afterwards  she  was  not  alone.  I  went  again.  I 
became  a  frequent  visitor  at  her  house,  but  I  usually 
found  her  surrounded  by  friends.  Of  course  it  was 
impossible  that  a  lady  of  her  engagements  and  occupa- 
tions should  pay  the  slightest  attention  to  me.  She  in 
fact  paid  very  little.  I  think  I  was  a  great  amusement 
to  her  friends.  I  sometimes  noticed  that  the  men  who 
surrounded  her  exchanged  enigmatic  glances  when  I 
entered.  I  used  to  ring  her  door-bell  at  five  o'clock, 
and  be  ushered  into  the  dainty  drawing-room,  which 
seemed  pervaded  with  her  strange  personality.  Some- 
times I  brought  her  flowers.  She  used  to  nod  her 
thanks  and  lay  them  upon  the  table.  I  think  she  for- 
got them  directly.  When  half  the  winter  was  over  I 


MORNING  MISTS  137 

began  to  suspect  that  she  was  very  tired  of  me.  I  am 
quite  sure  now  that  it  must  have  been  so.  I  suspected 
it  with  shame  and  pain.  I  used  to  resolve  that  I  would 
not  go  again  for  a  very  long  time.  I  would  count  the 
days  ;  then  at  last,  weakly,  I  would  go  once  more. 
She  was  never  alone,  never  once.  It  was  the  same  at 
the  opera  ;  she  would  extend  three  gloved  fingers  over 
the  shoulders  and  heads  of  others  who  flocked  into  her 
box,  smile  at  me,  and  that  was  all.  Yet  I  lingered  in 
her  box,  standing  about  blocking  the  door-way,  awk- 
ward, intrusive,  stupid,  miserable.  It  did  not  matter  ; 
every  time  I  entered  her  presence  she  exerted  upon  me 
the  same  bewildering  sorcery.  Every  time  her  garments 
brushed  me  I  felt  myself  more  and  more  her  slave. 

She  seemed  to  hold  a  little  court  of  her  own,  but  she 
was  not  one  of  those  women  who  are  called  social 
leaders ;  I  think  it  would  have  wearied  her.  I  think 
everything  wearied  her.  Mrs.  Pryor  was  a  little  tired. 
Towards  the  end  of  the  season  her  smile  became  more 
and  more  perfunctory,  still  soft,  but  colder.  She  prob- 
ably thought  that  I  had  no  tact.  After  those  first  two 
or  three  days,  now  so  distant,  spent  at  her  country- 
house,  she  had  ceased  to  be  coquettish  with  me  ;  her 
attention  wandered  when  I  spoke  to  her.  She  seemed 
always  distraite,  preoccupied. 

What  was  the  enigma  of  her  life  ?  I  do  not  know  ; 
I  never  knew.  When  I  think  of  her  now  I  hardly  feel 
sure  whether  she  was  as  beautiful  as  I  imagined  her.  I 
once  heard  some  women  speak  of  her  beauty  slightingly; 
I  once  overheard  some  men  say  that  she  was  foolish. 
They  may  have  been  right ;  but  in  those  days  I  had 
but  one  thought, — "  Oh  to  see  her  alone  once  more  !" 
What  should  I  have  said  to  her?  Probably  nothing. 
Yet  I  knew  I  had  much  to  tell  her, — oh,  so  much  ! 

12* 


I38  MORNING  MISTS 

everything, — everything  which  the  months,  the  years 
had  stifled  and  held  back  on  my  heart. 

One  evening  I  escorted  her  to  her  carriage,  at  the 
theatre.  The  night  was  stormy ;  a  gust  from  the 
banging  lobby  door  shivered  over  her.  Mrs.  Pryor 
shuddered  and  complained  of  being  chilly.  Two  days 
later  I  received  a  hurried  note  from  Bruce.  ' '  Dear  old 
fellow,"  he  wrote,  "we  are  in  great  trouble.  Come 
round  and  see  me."  I  hurried  into  my  coat  and  hat, 
and  was  soon  at  the  Pryors'  door.  The  summons  had 
sent  a  painful  presage  through  my  boy's  heart.  I  rang 
and  asked  for  Mr.  Bruce.  The  servant  said,  ' '  Directly, 
sir."  He  looked  grave.  He  went  up-stairs  hurriedly, 
and  left  me  standing  in  the  hall.  A  brougham  and  an 
open  gig  stood  outside  in  the  street ;  their  horses  were 
being  walked  up  and  down  in  the  snowy  night.  An 
awning  was  stretched  across  the  sidewalk  from  the  house 
next  door.  There  was  a  dance  in  progress  there.  I 
could  hear  the  music.  It  shook  the  thin  partition  walls. 

While  I  stood  in  the  hall-way  I  heard  a  voice  from 
some  subterranean  channel  say,  "  Don't  make  no  noise, 
that's  a  little  dear  !"  and  the  next  moment  a  child's 
head  appeared  at  the  pantry  door.  He  came  out.  It 
was  Ruthven.  He  held  a  piece  of  bread  in  one  hand 
and  a  glass  of  milk  in  the  other.  He  stopped  under 
the  landing,  put  his  provisions  down  on  the  floor,  and, 
clambering  up  into  a  high,  antique,  carved  chair,  began 
to  pull  off  his  boots.  When  he  had  done  so  he  sprang 
out  of  the  chair,  took  up  his  supper,  and  began  to 
creep  slowly  up  in  his  stocking-feet.  The  hall  was 
large,  wide,  dim  ;  he  did  not  see  me.  His  round,  short 
face  with  its  tangled  frame  of  light  hair  rose  from  out 
his  flannel  dressing-gown  like  a  flower.  The  garment 
hung  loosely  from  his  narrow  shoulders,  enveloping  his 


MORNING  MISTS  139 

little,  thin,  flexile  child's  body.  There  was  something 
inexplicably  pathetic  in  the  unconscious  little  figure 
picking  its  way  carefully  on  the  thick  velvet  of  the 
Axminster  carpet ;  and  the  child' s  action  had  shot 
through  me  with  a  swift  terror.  ' '  Ruthven  !' '  I  cried, 
in  a  loud  whisper. 

He  turned,  saw,  recognized  me,  and  slowly  and  with 
a  grave  dignity  came  down  the  stairs  again  cautiously. 
He  extended  his  thin  hand.  ' '  How  do  you  do, 
Mr.  Innes?"  he  said,  with  his  quaint,  old-fashioned 
courtesy. 

' '  What  has  happened  ?' '  I  asked. 

"Dear  mamma  is  ill,"  said  the  child.  "  Mary  was 
busy,  so  I  went  down  myself  to  fetch  my  supper." 

1 '  Is  your  mamma  very  ill  ?' '  I  said  to  him. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  answered,  vaguely.  "  I  cannot 
tell." 

' '  Are  the  doctors  with  her  ?' ' 

"  They  have  a  ...  consolation,"  he  said,  gravely. 
"They  are  in  the  parlor.  Papa  is  with  them." 

I  could  not  help  smiling.  ' '  A  consultation,  you 
mean,"  I  said.  "Ah!  then  they  will  find  out  some- 
thing that  will  do  your  mamma  good." 

' '  Is  that  the  watch  that  has  the  face  on  it  ?' '  he  asked, 
eagerly,  as  I  seated  myself  and  drew  him  between  my 
knees, — "the  one  your  grandpapa  gave  you?"  This 
old  time-piece  had  been  a  constant  source  of  delight 
and  wonder  to  him  during  my  visit  of  the  autumn 
days. 

"  No,"  I  said  ;  "it's  another  one." 

"Has  it  a  face  too?" 

"No." 

' '  Let  me  see  for  myself. ' '  And  he  pulled  it  out  and 
began  to  turn  it  over.  Just  then  the  servant  returned 


140  MORNING  MISTS 

and  begged  me  to  come  up  ;  Mr.  Bruce  wanted  to  see 
me  in  his  room.  So  I  left  Ruthven  and  followed  the 
man.  Bruce  met  me  at  the  door  ;  he  pulled  me  in  ;  he 
was  weeping.  "  Dear  old  fellow  !"  he  said,  "you  are 
good  to  come.  I  wanted  you.  Those  other  fellows 
don't  understand.  You  see,  I'm  all  broken  up.  I 
had  no  one  else  in  the  world  but  her  and  the  kid.  I 
hate  my  grandmother  worse  than  poison,  and  now  .  .  .. 
now  .  .  ." 

"Now?" 

Then  he  came  forward,  threw  one  arm  about  my 
neck,  his  head  rolled  on  my  shoulder,  and  he  burst 
into  loud  sobbings.  "  Oh,  my  darling  mother  !  my 
darling  mother  !' '  he  said. 

"Try  and  be  a  man  and  control  yourself.  Hush, 
hush  !  she  may  hear  you.  She  is  strong,  she  is 
young. ' ' 

He  shook  his  head.  ''They  come  three  times  a 
day,"  he  sobbed, — "three  times  !" 

"What  is  it?" 

"Pneumonia.  She  caught  cold  at  the  theatre  ;  she 
had  a  chill,  and  then  .  .  .  oh,  my  dear  little  mother  ! 
Oh,  my  !  oh,  my  !  she  was  so  sweet.  What  shall  I 
do?  I  tell  you  what,  Innes,  it's  rough." 

"Yes,"  I  said. 

Mrs.  Pryor  died  that  night. 

Three  days  afterwards  I  sat  in  a  dark  corner  of  the 
great  city  church,  and  I  saw  her  coffin  borne  up  behind 
the  white-robed  choristers,  and  as  they  walked  they 
sang.  It  was  covered  with  a  dark  purple  pall,  and  on 
it  were  a  great  many  flowers.  Behind,  alone,  walked 
General  Pryor,  erect,  with  set  lips,  his  face  livid,  but 
he  was  calm.  Behind  him  came  Bruce,  with  round 
shoulders,  weeping,  leading  his  little  brother  Ruthven 


MORNING  MISTS  141 

by  the  hand.     The  baby  face  looked  up  bewildered, 
frightened,  from  its  black  jacket. 

Then  came  others,  women  in  long  veils,  and  men 
with  sombre  mien.  And  lastly  some  young  girls  flut- 
tered up  in  rather  jaunty  black  hats,  looking  about.  I 
suppose  they  were  relatives. 

But  I  was  not  of  them.  Of  course  I  had  been  noth- 
ing to  her,  nothing;  her  son's  schoolmate, — nothing. 
Had  she  known  ?  Did  she  know  now  ?  I  felt  that  if 
she  had  been  happy  I  might  have  better  spared  her. 
But  ' '  she  was  not  happy,  she  was  not  happy, ' '  I  kept 
repeating  to  myself.  And  her  life  and  its  sorrows  would 
forever  remain  unknown  to  me.  Oh,  God,  she  had  suf- 
fered, suffered  !  Was  she  happy  now  ?  Then  I  prayed 
fervently,  ardently,  with  bowed  head,  ' '  God  make  her 
happy  now  ;  by  the  still  waters,  in  thy  green  pastures, 
give  her  peace  !"  In  those  days  I  still  had  kept  my 
boyhood's  faith. 

It  was  the  next  May  that  I  sought  her  grave.  It  was 
an  odd  thing  to  do.  I  remember  I  first  went  to  a  florist's 
and  bought  a  bouquet  of  white  lilies.  They  tied  them 
up  for  me  with  a  bit  of  white  paper  about  them,  and  I 
carried  them  thus  in  my  hand.  Then  I  took  a  train 
and  travelled  for  an  hour.  At  the  station  I  met  some 
fellows  who  chaffed  me  about  my  parcel.  "Isn't  he 
fresh ?"  they  said.  "They're  for  his  girl." 

When  I  reached  my  destination  I  was  told  the  ceme- 
tery was  up  the  hill.  It  was  a  lovely  spring  day.  The 
landscape  was  mellow  and  sweet,  not  sublime.  To 
mediocre  minds  like  my  own  a  country  hedge-row  is 
enough.  Genius  craves  the  open, — wide,  wind-swept 
plains,  an  illimitable  ocean.  I  am  content  sitting  in  a 
hay-field,  under  a  rick. 
-  The  full  summer  splendor  was  not  yet  awake.  The 


142  MORNING  MISTS 

verdure  had  a  languishing  tint,  but  there  were  some 
blossoming  shoots  on  the  saplings.  A  gray  silvery  haze 
lowered  from  the  heavens'  blue  solitude.  The  great 
woods  from  the  crest  of  the  rising  ground  looked  like 
black  smoke  on  a  reddish  sky.  On  the  wide  avenues 
and  narrow  lanes  a  few  dead  leaves  of  the  last  autumn 
were  still  piled  close  to  the  fences.  There  they  had 
lain  all  winter,  under  the  harsh  frosts,  imprisoned. 
The  oblique,  glad  sun-rays  seemed  to  bring  their  brown 
surfaces  into  a  new  radiance  of  color.  They  were  like 
a  dead  love  illumined  again  to  a  spasmodic  life  by  the 
tone  of  remembered  voices,  by  the  melody  of  some  old 
refrain  wafted  from  the  past.  The  bell  of  the  little 
church  at  the  cemetery  gate  was  swinging  out  the 
hour.  Its  tones  vibrated  like  pearls  of  ice  through  the 
limpidity  of  the  pure  atmosphere.  A  purple  steam 
rose  here  and  there,  from  unseen  house-tops,  straight 
and  slow  in  the  sleepy  breezes. 

The  man  at  the  gate  explained  to  me  the  way. 
They  were  mowing  the  grass.  There  were  men  at 
work  on  some  of  the  graves,  but  the  plot  which  I 
sought  was  silent  and  lonely  ;  it  already  looked  a  little 
neglected.  I  knew  her  grave-stone  at  once,  it  was  so 
clean  and  white.  The  grass  was  uneven,  dank,  and 
wet.  I  thought  of  her  pale  loveliness,  of  her  hands, 
of  her  star-like  eyes.  I  remembered  her,  erect  and 
elegant,  singing  to  us  the  Venetian  song. 

Ti  xe  bella,  ti  xe  zovane, 

Ti  xe  fresca  come  un  fior ; 
Vien  per  tutte  le  su'  lagreme, 

Ridi  adesso  e  fa  1'  amor. 

I  threw  my  lilies  on  the  earth. 

Are  there  a  good  and  an  evil  angel  who  breathe  on 


MORNING  MISTS  143 

this  organ  of  life,  the  heart?  If  it  is  but  a  sponge 
dipped  in  blood,  whence  then  come  its  sudden  aspira- 
tions, its  cries,  its  anguish?  Why  do  certain  words, 
certain  sounds,  certain  shadows  on  a  wall,  wring  the 
soul  with  such  strange  agony  ?  From  the  foot  of  the 
valley,  like  a  spiral  melody,  rose  her  voice  in  a  long 
sob  to  my  ear.  There  seemed  to  be  in  it  an  echo  of 
reproach.  I  said  to  myself,  "It  is  the  south  wind." 
In  fact,  it  was  only  the  wind,  but  it  woke  in  me  a  feel- 
ing of  detachment  from  all  else.  What  I  experienced 
was  at  once  sweet  and  terrible.  I  was  alone  with  her 
.  .  .  once  more  .  .  at  last. 


Conquered 


w 


i. 

HEN  Mrs.  Trevor  died,  there  were  many  omi- 
nous waggings  of  the  head.  The  gossips  said 
she  had  at  last  given  her  husband  an  excellent  chance 
to  disgrace  himself.  What  particular  form  of  divaga- 
tion it  would  be  that  this  injudicious  gentleman  would 
now  visit  upon  the  unoffending  heads  of  his  anxious 
relatives  found  no  formula  in  expression. 

"  Disgrace"  is  a  good  enough  every-day  word  to  fling 
about.  It  is  appalling  and  conclusive.  There  is  no 
doubt  about  it  that  Mr.  Trevor  had  been  a  target  for 
calumny.  Why  he  should  be  so,  was  difficult  to  de- 
termine ;  possibly,  because  he  was  so  very  good- 
natured. 

Such  stigma,  however,  as  may  have  rested  upon  Mr. 
Trevor  senior's  reputation  for  respectability — there  was 
a  young  Mr.  Trevor,  who  had  a  handsome  wife — re- 
mained vague  and  obscure.  Some  aspersions  had  been 
cast  upon  his  morals,  now  and  then,  as  they  are  in- 
evitably on  successful  people,  who  have  aroused  rival- 
ries and  therefore  enmities.  They  had  generally  been 
quickly  stilled.  Like  every  rich  man,  he  was  credited 
with  certain  foibles  and  follies  which  might  or  might 
144 


CONQUERED  145 

not  have  facts  behind  them.  His  wife  did  not  appear 
to  be  greatly  disturbed  by  them.  She  was  an  intel- 
lectual woman,  and  she  was  highly  educated  ;  her  hus- 
band, although  a  man  of  ability,  was  not.  From  her 
earliest  married  years,  she  had  treated  him  indulgently, 
as  one  does  a  child  or  an  inferior, — with  a  care,  how- 
ever, not  to  strain  this  attitude  of  leniency  too  far. 
She  desired  to  inspire  him  with  a  certain  wholesome 
awe.  She  was  authoritative.  The  love  of  material 
blessings  was  not  entirely  left  out,  however,  of  Mrs. 
Trevor's  composition,  and  she  seemed,  notwithstand- 
ing her  lofty  ideals,  to  fully  appreciate  all  the  good 
things  that  were  provided  for  her. 

There  were  those  that  said  Mr.  Trevor  was  neglectful 
of  his  wife.  In  her  early  life,  however,  this  neglect 
could  not  have  been  pronounced.  The  lady  had  borne 
her  lord  a  family  of  sons  and  daughters,  of  which 
feat  she  spoke  with  pride.  They  were  now  all  married. 
Mrs.  Trevor  was  one  of  those  persons  who  command 
everybody's  respect,  the  admiration  of  a  few,  but  are 
not  beloved.  It  had  never  been  supposed  that  her  hus- 
band entertained  for  her  a  large  degree  of  affection. 
If  she  suffered  from  this,  she  made  no  sign.  Pity  is 
the  scourge  of  proud  natures.  Mrs.  Trevor  was  proud. 
She  had  made  no  confidences.  She  had  seen  that  her 
sons  were  prepared  for  college,  being  herself  fully 
equipped  for  this  task  ;  that  her  girls  were  taught  to 
dance  and  sing  and  paint,  were  well  dressed,  knew  the 
right  people,  and  were  thus  fitted  for  social  honors.  If 
she  had  choked  their  impulses  with  the  sterile  sands  of 
egotism,  had  made  them  a  little  hard  and  selfish,  they 
were  at  least  well-mannered  and  distinguished.  She 
looked  upon  her  husband  as  an  unconquered,  untamed 
remnant  of  natural  man,  and  had  imbued  his  children 
G  k  13 


146  CONQUERED 

with  a  certain  undisguised  contempt  for  "papa."  She 
had  always  seen  to  it,  however,  that  his  table  was  prop- 
erly set,  his  friends  properly  received,  that  he  was 
properly  fed  and  warmed  and  skilfully  nursed  when  he 
was  ill.  She  attended  regularly  to  her  church  and 
charities,  and  was  met  at  such  functions  as  society  ex- 
acted from  her  position  and  her  wealth ;  yet,  if  this 
lady's  loving  kindnesses  were  hardly  "  cruel, "  they 
were  certainly  not  gentle.  There  had  been  a  degree 
of  rigidity  in  her  attitude,  of  aggressiveness  in  her 
sacrifices. 

When  she  was  dead,  it  was  almost  a  relief.  The 
community  drew  a  long  breath.  It  is  just  possible  that 
her  lord  was  a  little  relieved,  too. 

His  daughter  Mattie  undertook  to  console  him  in  his 
bereavement.  Mattie  was  full  of  faults,  but  she  had 
somehow  escaped  the  family  failing  of  selfishness.  She 
was  very  human,  and  she  was  fond  of  her  father. 

A  young  gentleman,  whose  advances  to  this  youngest 
and  favorite  daughter  (the  Mattie  in  question)  Mr. 
Trevor  had  discountenanced,  said  in  the  club,  one  even- 
ing, shortly  after  Mrs.  Trevor's  funeral, — 

' '  The  old  goat  will  marry  Jessie  Fallon  now  ;  he  has 
been  after  her  ;  now  she  will  be  after  him." 

Jessie  Fallon  was  a  young  woman  who  danced  a  cer- 
tain eccentric  dance  and  sang  a  still  more  eccentric  song 
at  a  popular  concert-hall.  She  was  reputed  to  be  al- 
luring and  clever.  She  never  wasted  any  time  on  the 
impecunious  ardors  of  early  youth.  She  was,  at  any 
rate,  extremely  good-looking. 

This  remark  wandered  down  the  club  steps  and  up 
the  avenue,  and  flew  in  at  open  windows  near  which 
fair  matrons  sipped  their  cups  of  tea  in  the  soft  airs  of  a 
languid  spring.  It  grew  and  increased,  and  waxed  por- 


CONQUERED  147 

tentous,  until  there  was  much  clacking  of  tongues. 
"  It  would  be  so  horrid  for  Mattie  !" 

Mattie  lived  at  home.  She  had  been  a  spoiled  and 
wilful  girl,  had  made  an  unworldly  love-match,  and 
had  found  it  convenient  to  remain  in  the  parent- nest. 
Her  unprosperous  husband,  who  was  a  poet,  thought 
the  Trevor  mansion  sufficiently  comfortable.  He  was 
one  of  those  beings  whom  nature  seems  to  have  essen- 
tially fitted  for  the  rdle  of  son-in-law.  He  was  making 
of  it  a  career.  When  he  was  not  in  the  travail  of  com- 
position, he  ran  errands  for  his  wife  or  for  his  wife's 
mother,  answered  notes  for  the  head  of  the  household, 
and  played  head-nurse  to  the  baby  in  moments  of  do- 
mestic upheaval,  when  necessity  demanded.  In  return 
for  this  exemplary  conduct,  he  was  given  a  sumptuous 
bed-chamber  and  study  in  the  third  story,  and  had  ex- 
cellent things  to  eat  and  drink  at  his  command.  The 
poems  were  supposed  to  pay  for  his  clothes.  Mattie 
alone  knew  that  they  did  not.  Mr.  Trevor  pretended 
not  to  suspect  it.  His  worst  enemy  had  never  called 
him  ungenerous. 

A  year  passed  and  found  Miss  Jessie  Fallon  no  nearer 
reaching  the  goal  of  her  ambition,  which  was  said  to  be 
the  securing  unto  herself  of  a  wealthy  and  a  la  -mode 
husband.  She  still  sang  and  pirouetted,  chalked  her 
nose  and  rouged  her  cheeks,  and  kicked  and  shrieked, 
and  stood  on  her  head  at  the  concert-hall  over  the  cafe, 
while  Mr.  Trevor  still  wore  black  crape  on  his  hat,  and 
did  not  yet  discard  his  sombre  hose  and  gloves. 

A  few  months  after  his  wife's  death  he  had  joined  a 
quiet  card  club,  consisting  of  about  five  married  couples 
of  his  acquaintance,  persons  he  liked  well  enough,  but 
whom,  under  happier  circumstances,  he  rarely  met. 
Mattie  had  persuaded  him  that  he  could  not  go  with 


148  CONQUERED 

propriety  to  men's  dinners  under  twelve  months,  much 
less  to  ' '  mixed' '  ones,  as  she  called  feasts  which  women 
grace,  and  that  he  must  not  be  seen  at  the  opera — of 
which  he  was  fond — until  his  term  of  mourning  should 
have  expired  ;  so  .  .  .  he  had  consented  to  play  cards 
once  a  week  with  these  quiet  friends,  as  a  distraction  to 
his  grief,  when  he  had  any  time  to  waste  away  from  his 
club. 

There  was  a  retired  army  officer  and  "his  lady,"  as 
the  hotel  clerks  have  it ;  a  middle-aged  banker  of 
Knickerbocker  ancestry,  with  a  whimsical  wife,  at  whose 
house  the  reunions  took  place ;  a  broker  of  sixty-five 
and  his  unmarried  daughter  of  forty  ;  two  or  three 
other  men  of  leisure  or  affairs,  as  the  case  might  be, — 
persons  who  did  not  go  into  the  world,  yet  whose  eyes 
and  ears  were  open  with  sufficient  alertness  to  its  per- 
formance. To  these  people  Mr.  Trevor  was  a  coveted 
and  desirable  acquisition.  He  was  their  only  man  of 
fashion.  He  had  the  prestige  of  a  certain  usage  of  the 
world,  with  an  easy  joviality  which  pleased.  The  rumor 
that  he  was  a  black  sheep,  which  had  reached  the  mem- 
bers of  the  card  club,  but  enhanced  the  self-approba- 
tiveness  of  their  own  white  consciences.  They  con- 
gratulated themselves  on  having  a  catholic  spirit,  on 
being  men  and  women  of  the  world,  who,  so  long  as  a 
man  conducted  himself  with  propriety  while  in  their 
midst,  would  not  put  him  to  any  crucial  test  of  private 
behavior. 

Ah  !  .  .  .  there  is  just  one  person  I  have  forgotten 
to  mention,  who  glided  in  silently  and  unobtrusively 
every  Saturday  night,  and  took  her  seat  at  one  of  the 
card  tables.  The  whimsical  wife  of  the  banker  soon 
managed  that  it  should  always  be  at  the  same  one  with 
Mr.  Trevor,  an  arrangement  which  the  maiden  of  forty 


CONQUERED  149 

looked  upon  with  some  disfavor.  The  hostess  was  a 
woman  of  charm,  through  a  certain  graceful  and  mis- 
chief-loving humor.  If  her  physical  attractions,  which 
had  been  of  no  mean  order,  were  now  somewhat 
dimmed,  her  humor  had  not  deserted  her.  Was  it  not 
a  drop  of  this  quality  which  lurked  in  her  manoeuvre  ? 
The  guest  whom  she  managed  to  thus  assure  as  vis-cL-vis 
to  Mr.  Trevor  was  a  lady,  by  name  Mrs.  Gardiner  Fen- 
ton.  Everybody,  of  course,  knew  the  Gardiner  Fen- 
tons.  The  name  was  enough,  no  introduction  was 
necessary.  Mrs.  Fenton's  daughters  had  been  belles 
of  two  successive  winters,  and  now  that  they  were  both 
married,  were  still  reigning  beauties.  When  one  looked 
into  their  mother's  face,  it  was  not  difficult  to  fathom 
whence  they  had  drawn  their  comeliness.  I  say  that 
Mrs.  Gardiner  Fenton  needed  no  introduction  ;  yet, 
curiously  enough,  Mr.  Trevor,  although  he  had  seen 
her  daughters  in  the  world,  had  not  met  her  before.  If 
her  daughters  had  inherited  their  beauty  from  their 
mother,  the  reader  need  not  therefore  imagine  that  at 
this  moment  of  her  life  Mrs.  Gardiner  Fenton  was, 
strictly  speaking,  beautiful.  She  was  not.  If  Julie  de 
Ke'camier  Diane  de  Poitiers  and  Ninon  de  1'Enclos 
drank  of  the  fountains  of  eternal  youth,  and  were  fondly 
loved  and  desired  at  ages  when  other  women  are  con- 
tent to  be  grandmothers,  certain  it  is  that  their  peculiar 
secrets  were  unknown  and  unpractised  by  Mrs.  Gar- 
diner Fenton.  She  was  fifty,  and  she  looked  it.  She 
even  acknowledged  it.  She  exclaimed  one  day,  over 
the  game  of  euchre  that  was  in  progress,  that  the  fol- 
lowing Saturday  would  be  her  fiftieth  birthday,  and 
that  she  should  be  greatly  offended  if  her  hostess  did 
not  provide  a  cake  with  fifty  candles  to  welcome  her. 
She  was  taken  at  her  word,  and  fifty  wax  lights  greeted 

13* 


150  CONQUERED 

her  soft  eyes  on  the  occasion.  Mr.  Trevor  had  been 
gallant  and  had  sent  a  magnificent  nosegay  of  red  roses, 
which  she  found  lying  upon  her  chair.  She  buried  her 
face  in  its  fragrance,  and  rewarded  the  donor  with  a 
faint  smile.  Their  eyes  met ;  she  blushed.  At  fifty, 
Beatrix  Fenton  could  blush  like  a  young  girl.  In 
many  things  she  was  one  still.  There  are  women  who 
have  kept  at  seventy  a  certain  virginity  of  soul ;  others 
have  lost  it  at  eighteen.  Possibly  it  was  this  retained 
innocence  which  made  her  sons  so  fond  of  her.  Had 
she  been  a  saint  or  a  Madonna,  they  could  not  have 
given  her  a  more  worshipful  affection.  Of  sons,  she 
had  two,  now  men,  launched  in  life,  and  then  there 
were  the  daughters  of  whom  I  have  spoken.  She  lived 
in  her  beautiful  home  in  New  Jersey,  where  she  owned 
ancestral  acres,  and  she  only  came  to  town  to  pass  her 
Sundays  with  her  daughters.  The  Saturday  card  party 
was  her  one  dissipation. 

Since  her  husband's  death,  which  had  occurred  twenty- 
three  years  before,  she  had  never  been  to  a  ball,  and 
she  had  never  worn  a  color.  A  gay  aunt  had  chap- 
eroned her  girls.  At  the  wedding  of  her  daughters 
she  had  indeed  compromised  by  appearing  in  white  and 
mauve,  and  her  elegance  had  then  been  commented 
upon.  Striking  she  certainly  was.  She  was  tall  and 
stately,  with  a  full  and  rounded  figure,  which,  in  girl- 
hood, had  been  called  willowy,  although  it  was  so  no 
more.  She  did  nothing,  however,  to  enhance  its  fine 
outlines.  Her  gowns  only  fitted  moderately  well,  as 
she  was  too  indifferent  to  try  them  on  often,  and  was 
therefore  the  despair  of  the  dressmakers.  She  usually 
wore  high-necked  black  silk  or  velvet,  with  the  addition, 
on  certain  occasions,  of  white  lace  and  pearls.  She 
rarely  showed  her  arms  or  her  bosom.  When  she  did 


CONQUERED  151 

so,  it  was  very  moderately ;  they  were  seen  to  be  of 
dazzling  fairness  and  still  fresh  and  firm.  The  throat 
was  devoid  of  that  dark  circle  which  the  years  usually 
dig  beneath  the  larynx  ;  but,  as  I  say,  persons  rarely 
saw  aught  but  her  face  and  her  hands  ;  these  were 
delicate  and  white.  Her  hair  was  worn  in  an  old- 
fashioned  ripple,  down  close  on  each  side  of  her  tem- 
ples, and  fastened  in  a  knot  at  the  back  of  her  head. 
It  was  of  a  very  light  silky  brown,  and  still  thick. 
There  were  few  gray  hairs  among  its  natural  waves, 
but  some  there  were.  She  wore  them  neither  with 
coquetry  nor  vexation  ;  she  had  hardly  noticed  them. 
Her  forehead  was  high  and  spiritual ;  her  eyes  were 
large  and  expressive,  rather  tender  and  gentle  than 
brilliant.  Her  nose  was  superb,  straightly  and  nobly 
chiselled.  Her  mouth  was  sad,  the  lips  a  trifle  worn, 
turned  up  a  little  at  one  corner  when  she  smiled.  This, 
with  the  tremolo  of  her  low  voice,  gave  an  inexpressible 
pathos  to  her  rare  laughter.  Her  soft  cheeks  were  not 
as  rounded  as  once  they  had  been  ;  a  pale  pink  rose 
sometimes  burned  on  them,  but,  like  her  smile,  was 
fugitive.  Withal  that  time  had  treated  her  so  kindly, 
Mrs.  Fenton  looked  nearly,  if  not  fully,  her  age.  Her 
manner,  her  aspect,  was  that  of  one  who  has  long  since 
ceased  to  wish  to  attract.  The  wish  had  never  been 
emphatic.  She  had  at  no  age  been  what  is  called  a 
man's  woman.  She  was  not  very  clever  and  she  was 
not  fascinating.  It  is  to  be  supposed  that  her  husband 
had  loved  her.  His  had  been  her  first  offer  and  her 
only  one.  Since  her  widowhood,  no  man  had  dared  to 
say  a  word  of  love  or  even  of  admiration  to  her.  They 
instinctively  felt  more  like  uncovering  or  kneeling  be- 
fore her  than  making  love  to  her,  if  they  felt  anything 
at  all.  To  most  men  she  was  simply  the  mother  of 


15 «  CONQUERED 

children  ;  an  admirable  lady,  refined  and  virtuous.  Yet 
that  girlish  timidity  which  lay  in  her  character  did  not 
stamp  her  as  eminently  the  mother. 

It  is  even  possible  that  her  children  loved  her  more 
warmly  than  she  did  them.  She  met  their  affection, 
particularly  when  it  was  demonstrative,  with  a  certain 
protesting  gratitude.  Hers  was  not  an  intense  temper. 
She  was  placid  and  serene,  fulfilling  all  her  duties  with 
regularity,  but  with  a  certain  nonchalance.  Small 
natures,  whose  egotism  asks  too  much  of  life,  turn  sour. 
She  had  indulged  in  no  vivid  or  exaggerated  dreams, 
and  so  the  dregs  of  her  nature,  when  stirred,  were 
sweet.  She  had  never  asked  too  much  of  fortune  or 
of  men,  hence  she  did  not  dislike  humanity.  She  took 
little  interest  in  public  affairs.  The  motives  and  con- 
vulsions of  empires  and  republics,  diplomatic  combina- 
tions, the  clash  of  arms,  the  slaughter  of  men,  the 
shock  of  ideas,  left  her  without  curiosity  or  emotion. 
The  forum,  the  camp,  the  mart,  were  mere  words  to 
her.  It  is  probable  that  Thucydides's  description  of  the 
final  destruction  of  the  Athenian  host  would  have  left 
her  cold.  She  read  little,  only  a  few  novels,  and,  in 
periodicals,  such  articles  as  might  while  away  and  amuse 
an  idle  hour.  She  could  speak  lucidly  of  what  she 
read,  but  with  no  marked  critical  acumen.  Neverthe- 
less she  had  opinions.  She  was  one  of  those  women 
whose  household  is  well  ordered.  She  had  taste  ;  she 
loved  her  flowers  and  her  garden.  Nurtured  in  luxury, 
she  was  more  simple  than  extravagant.  All  her  pleas- 
ures had  been  innocent.  Mrs.  Fenton  was  not  given 
to  speech ;  in  fact;  she  was  usually  silent.  A  good 
listener,  she  was  interested,  but  hardly  sympathetic. 
She  lacked  the  imagination  requisite  to  this  last  quality. 
She  pitied  suffering,  because  she  was  essentially  womanly, 


CONQUERED  153 

but  she  did  not  strongly  realize  its  throes.  With  men 
she  was  reserved  and  even  shy.  In  her  intercourse  with 
them  she  was  perfectly  natural,  absolutely  free  from  all 
artificiality.  She  had  escaped  the  half-kittenish,  half- 
humiliated  challenge  of  the  middle  aged  woman  who 
will  not  abjure  conquest.  This  painful  exhibition  of 
moral  weakness  has  doubtless  often  driven  serious  men 
from  drawing-rooms.  Was  it  this  entire  absence  of 
vanity  in  a  woman  of  his  world  which  first  piqued  and 
then  enchanted  Mr.  Trevor  ? 

II. 

CERTAIN  it  is  that  upon  the  evening  when  she  blushed 
such  a  white-rose  pink  and  looked  up  at  Mr.  Trevor 
with  her  little  half-smile  on  the  corner  of  her  pure  lip, 
the  man  felt  the  strangest  thrill  traverse  his  heart.  It 
left  him  shaken  as  if  a  knife  had  struck  and  pierced 
right  straight  into  his  breast.  He  had  not  known  such 
an  emotion  for  many  years.  It  worried  him  all  the 
way  home.  He  was  six  or  seven  years  older  than 
Mrs.  Fenton,  but  he  had  all  the  vanities  of  a  much 
younger  man.  He  dressed  youthfully  ;  he  not  only 
followed,  but  led  all  the  newest  fashions.  He  chose 
for  his  friends  men  twenty  years  younger  than  him- 
self, and,  in  the  world,  affected  to  devote  himself  to 
extremely  young  women.  He  was  secretly  annoyed  if 
at  dinner-parties  he  was  placed  between  two  dowagers, 
preferring  the  youthful  crudity  of  brides  and  maidens 
of  eighteen  to  the  prestige  of  important  and  command- 
ing personalities.  If  the  idea  of  a  second  marriage  had 
presented  itself  to  him,  he  would  have  instantly  selected 
a  woman  of  the  age  of  his  youngest  daughter.  It 
seemed,  therefore,  incredible  to  him  that  the  slightest 
attraction  of  sex  could  exist  in  a  woman  who  had  just 


154  CONQUERED 

acknowledged  herself  half  a  century  old.  It  was  pre- 
posterous, even  unpleasant.  He  drove  away  the  mem- 
ory ;  yet  it  returned  to  haunt  him.  He  dreamed  of 
her  at  night,  of  those  deep  eyes  in  whose  soft  and  quiet 
depths  one  might  find  peace  and  pardon, — nay,  conso- 
lation for  a  misspent  and  frivolous  past. 

On  the  next  Saturday  he  met  her  again.  He  found 
himself  unexpectedly  and  unaccountably  agitated.  She 
was  not  in  the  room  when  he  arrived.  He  hoped  she 
would  not  come.  But  when  she  did  not,  he  could 
hardly  repress  his  sorrow  and  his  dismay.  He  told 
himself  he  was  a  great  fool,  mourning  or  no  mourning, 
to  make  an  old  fogy  of  himself  with  these  bores,  and 
the  only  person  who  was  worth  coming  to  meet  evi- 
dently tired  with  the  entertainment  herself!  She  did 
come,  at  last.  .  .  .  And  when  his  eyes  were  again 
raised,  it  was  in  fear  lest  hers  should  not  be  kind.  They 
were  neither  kind  nor  the  reverse.  The  unconscious 
object  of  his  week's  reveries  had  been  sublimely  forget- 
ful of  his  very  existence,  and  she  looked  at  him  now 
very  much  as  she  looked  every  morning  at  the  gray  cat 
that  came  to  get  its  milk  at  her  white  hands.  The  par- 
ticular animal  which  Mr.  Trevor  represented  to  her  had, 
in  her  estimation,  a  somewhat  undesirable  complexion. 

She  had  heard  things  said  against  him,  and,  as  an 
intelligent  and  wicked  cynic  has  told  us,  ' '  Calumniate 
boldly,  for  some  of  it  will  stick  ;' '  some  of  it  had  been 
sufficiently  bold  and  had  in  this  case  "stuck."  She 
considered  him  a  foolish  sort  of  fellow,  affecting  the 
airs  of  youth,  given  to  foppery  and  to  other  less  inno- 
cent pursuits.  She  decided  that  his  early  success  in 
affairs  had  been  more  the  result  of  chance  than  the 
fruits  of  character,  which  shows  that  she  was,  in  fact, 
not  clever.  There  are  few  chances  in  the  course  of 


CONQUERED  155 

events,  and  those  who  seize  them  to  their  own  advantage 
are  the  able  ones  of  earth.  On  the  whole,  however, 
she  had  thought  of  him  very  little. 

Mr.  Trevor  did  not  relish  being  treated  and  looked 
at  in  this  way.  It  vexed  his  spirit  of  charmeur,  for  it 
must  be  said  that  if  there  were  those  who,  through 
envy  or  malice,  laughed  at  him,  he  had  laid  successful 
sieges,  in  his  day,  to  feminine  hearts,  and  was  still  quite 
capable  in  such  investment  of  victory.  He  was  good- 
looking,  elegant,  a  prince  with  money,  full  of  sympathy, 
and  had  that  species  of  vitality  which,  in  spending  itself, 
seems  to  bring  cheer  into  dulness,  life  into  lethargy.  His 
faults,  such  as  they  were,  had  been  more  harmful  to 
himself  than  to  others. 

One  morning  Mrs.  Gardiner  Fenton  was  sitting  alone 
on  her  veranda,  with  a  book  idly  lying  upon  her  knees. 
Visitors  were  scarce  at  any  time  in  her  secure  retreat, 
under  her  trees,  and  at  this  hour  almost  unheard  of. 
Her  son,  a  rising  architect,  the  only  one  who  still  lived 
at  home,  had  gone  into  the  city,  as  he  did  daily.  Her 
household  cares  had  been  dismissed  for  the  day ;  she 
had  ordered  her  carriage,  to  pay  some  visits  in  the 
afternoon.  Now  she  was  debating  whether  she  would 
go  into  the  garden  and  look  after  her  flower-beds  or 
stay  quietly  and  finish  her  novel  in  the  shade  of  the 
flapping  awning.  It  was  a  warm  morning,  so  warm 
that  she  had  ventured  to  sit  out.  There  was  a  sugges- 
tion of  approaching  summer  in  the  breeze. 

Suddenly  a  hack  from  the  neighboring  station  rolled  in 
at  the  gate.  It  appeared  and  disappeared  several  times 
through  the  shrubbery,  until  it  finally  drew  up  at  the 
steps.  A  man  sprang  out.  The  butler  hurried  through 
the  hall.  From  her  place  of  vantage  she  could  see  them 
both.  She  recognized  her  visitor.  It  was  Mr.  Trevor. 


156  CONQUERED 

A  moment  later  he  stood  beside  her.  He  murmured 
something  about  being  in  her  neighborhood  ' '  on  busi- 
ness." Now,  Mr.  Trevor  had  long  since  retired  from 
active  affairs.  This  perfunctory  explanation  was  ac- 
cepted, however,  without  comment.  Mrs.  Fenton  re- 
mained unflustered  and  undisturbed.  She  did  not  run 
in  for  a  veil,  smooth  her  hair,  ring  for  a  lace  parasol. 
She  stayed  exactly  where  she  was,  with  a  streak  of 
harshly  revealing  sunlight  falling  on  the  part  above  the 
fine  texture  of  her  pale  forehead  and  playing  havoc 
with  such  loveliness  as  time  had  left  to  her.  The  fret- 
work of  lines  about  the  bistre  orb  of  her  large  eyes 
darted  out  in  bold  relief.  Her  eyelids  were  heavy  and 
a  little  red  ;  her  cheeks  were  white.  After  a  while,  the 
warmth  of  the  sun,  or  perhaps  some  other  warmth,  she 
wotted  not,  brought  into  them  that  glow  which  his 
roses  had  first  left  there,  and  which,  to  Mr.  Trevor, 
seemed  ineffably  pathetic.  Whence  sprang  that  mys- 
terious blooming,  whose  roots  lay  somewhere  in  the 
soul  ?  In  his  ?  or  hers  ?  No  fresh  and  peach-like  bloom 
upon  a  child's  young  face ;  no  rich,  bright  promise  of 
dawning  maidenhood ;  no  burning  tell-tale  flush  of 
passionate  womanhood  had  seemed  to  hold  for  him  one- 
half  the  majesty,  significance,  and  fascination  of  the  lost 
color  on  this  faded  lady's  cheek. 

Lost !  lost !  And  did  it  not  come  back  for  him,  and 
would  he  not  find,  nay,  fix  it  there  forever?  As  he 
looked  at  its  fluctuation,  at  the  tired  eyelids,  and  bathed 
in  the  reposeful  lull  of  that  strange  influence  which  she 
alone  exerted  over  him,  there  arose  in  the  man's  heart, 
to  choke  and  strangle  him,  a  curious  sensation.  His 
hands  trembled,  his  ever  ready  flow  of  verb  and  ad- 
jective, of  exclamation  and  compliment,  expired  in  the 
utterance.  He  felt  a  sudden  longing  to  fall  at  her  feet. 


CONQUERED  157 

What  should  he  say  to  her?  The  question  clove 
him.  It  acted  upon  him  like  a  cold  douche.  He  pulled 
himself  together,  and  talked  of  the  weather,  the  news 
in  the  morning  World,  for  which  its  editor  had  paid  his 
thousands,  while  she  invited  him  with  cold  formality  to 
stop  and  breakfast. 

' '  No,  I  will  not  intrude  longer  upon  you,  I  only 
stopped  in  passing  •  forgive  the  intrusion.  Pray,  accept 
these  violets." 

He  detached,  as  he  spoke,  his  large  boutonniere,  and 
gave  it  into  her  hands. 

"  I  am  off  to  the  train  •  I  shall  breakfast  at  my  club 
when  I  arrive.  Good-by — farewell." 

She  urged  him  no  further,  and  they  parted.  She 
expressed  no  surprise  at  his  sudden  invasion.  To  him 
her  reticences  seemed  more  pregnant  than  words.  They 
made  her  sublime  to  him.  She  had  no  fussiness,  no 
assertiveness,  none  of  the  woman's  tormenting  and 
excessive  desire  for  talk,  argument,  parlance.  Had 
she  felt  annoyance  at  his  visit?  In  vain  he  racked 
himself  as  he  thundered  home  over  plain  and  ditch  in 
the  smoky,  stuffy  train. 

Had  she? 

When  he  left  her,  she  remained  for  some  time  with 
her  hands  folded  together  in  her  lap.  The  wind  blew 
her  hair  about.  In  her  mind  was  this  thought :  "I 
knew  he  would  come,  but  hardly  fancied  that  it  would 
be  so  soon."  And  then  she  rose  and  went  into  the 
house. 

So  Beatrix  had  guessed  her  power.  She  had  seen 
that  he  trembled.  Did  she  like  it?  After  a  while  a 
frown  gathered  in  two  sharp  lines  between  her  eyes, 
"  One  wouldn't  like  to  be  made  ridiculous,"  she  mur- 
mured, as  she  moved  about  her  room.  But  she  did 


158  CONQUERED 

not,  as  nearly  every  woman  would  have  done — glance 
into  the  mirror,  no,  not  once. 

He,  in  the  mean  while,  found  himself  continually  pos- 
sessed by  her  image.  She  seemed  to  him  like  that 
sister  of  Alcina  and  Morgana  who  taught  Ruggiero  to 
master  the  hyppograff  with  book  and  horn.  Ah  !  won- 
drous potency  !  And  when  he  remembered  Jessie 
Fallen,  it  was  with  a  shiver  of  mingled  disgust  and 
shame  !  If  she  should  know,  even  guess  what  his 
life  had  been !  She,  his  only  friend !  He  thought 
of  her  thus,  as  a  friend,  ay,  a  divinity,  at  whose 
altars  one  might  long  to  bring  an  humble  offering 
and  to  pray. 

His  daughter  Mattie  was  surprised  on  the  following 
Sunday  when  her  father  suggested  driving  with  her  to 
church.  He  continued  to  attend  in  the  family  pew 
regularly  after  this.  It  had  been  a  source  of  regret  to 
his  woman-kind  that  ' '  papa' '  had  ' '  no  religion  ;' '  but 
now  he  became  suddenly  devout  and  asked  odd  ques- 
tions upon  theology  and  the  ritual, — questions  which 
rather 'bothered  the  young  woman  herself.  He  remem- 
bered that  his  mother  had  had  him  confirmed  when  he 
was  twelve  years  old,  and  it  was  with  some  compunction 
that  he  turned  away  from  the  altar  and  joined  the  out- 
going crowd  upon  the  day  of  communion. 

About  this  time  the  lady  whom  I  have  called  whimsi- 
cal, and  whose  name  was  Mrs.  Urquhart,  dropped  in  to 
see  Mr.  Trevor's  daughter  one  afternoon.  During  this 
visit  she  led  the  latter  to  understand  that  her  father  was 
a  frequent  visitor  at  Mrs.  Fenton's  place. 

"  You  had  better  look  out  for  your  papa,  my  dear," 
she  said.  ' '  He  is  quite  infatuated. ' ' 

Mattie  was  greatly  amused.  But  when  the  report 
took  shape  and  substance,  and  rolled  up,  and  every- 


CONQUERED  159 

body  began  to  talk  about  it,  she  ran  around  to  see  her 
married  sisters. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  what  we  are  expected  to  do 
about  it,"  said  young  Mrs.  Fothergill.  "It  is  better 
than  it  might  have  been  ;  she  is  a  lady  ;  but,  of  course, 
it  is  all  nonsense." 

"A  lady?"  said  Mrs.  Gregory  Gray.  "I,  for  my 
part,  think  she  is  disgracing  herself. ' ' 

"Why,  I  don't  suppose,  sister,  that  such  an  idea  has 
ever  entered  her  head.  She  is  the  quietest  poke  of  a 
woman,"  said  Mattie.  To  her,  her  father's  future  was 
of  more  importance  than  to  her  sisters. 

' '  Pshaw,  they  are  the  worst  when  they  get  going, ' ' 
said  Mrs.  Fothergill ;  ' '  I  hear  that  papa  heaps  her  with 
flowers  and  things." 

' '  She  must  be  encouraging  him  frightfully, ' '  said 
Mrs.  Gregory  Gray.  "  I  should  think  Mary  and  Lola 
would  be  just  furious."  These  were  Mrs.  Gardiner 
Fenton's  daughters. 

"She  is  probably  a  designing  woman,"  said  Mrs. 
Fothergill,  decidedly. 

They  had  been  brought  up  to  the  view  that  all 
behavior  was  right  or  wrong,  correct  or  incorrect,  as 
if  it  were  not  much  else  beside  these  !  Have  not  rare 
flowers  of  exquisite  breath  sprung  up  in  wretched  soil  ? 
Have  not  gracious  things  thriven  out  of  disorder  ? 

1 '  All  Lola  and  Mary  care  about  is  amusing  them- 
selves," said  Mrs.  Fothergill. 

"Why,  she  must  be  nearly  a  hundred,"  said  Mrs. 
Gregory  Gray. 

"She  is  a  lovely-looking  woman  for  all  that,"  said 
Mattie,  ' '  and  father  is  most  changed ' ' 

"  Changed  !     Fol-de-rol,"  said  the  others  in  concert. 

"  He  was  always  good  enough  for  me,"  said  Mattie, 


160  CONQUERED 

a  little  hotly.  "I  never  thought  dear  mamma  under- 
stood him." 

The  sisters  parted  with  a  certain  consternation. 

That  very  day  a  man  and  woman  were  walking  slowly 
beneath  the  shadows  of  a  leafy  arbor  ;  she  was  leaning 
lightly  on  his  arm  ;  he  had  a  rapt  look  ;  they  were  in 
earnest  conversation,  or  at  least  he  was  speaking.  It 
was  always  he  that  spoke,  and  she  that  listened.  This 
listening  had  become  unconsciously  to  herself  a  part  of 
her  life.  Mr.  Trevor  had  continued  his  visits.  The 
plea  of  business  had  soon  been  dropped  from  these 
strange  love-trysts.  Sometimes  he  stopped  only  an 
hour,  sometimes  half  the  day.  They  breakfasted  then 
en  tete-a-t£te,  took  a  quiet  drive  across  the  fields,  or 
sat  in  the  garden  together.  He  never  spent  a  night ; 
he  was  not  asked  to  do  so.  He  sent  gifts  of  flowers, 
books,  bonbons.  She  thanked  him,  no  more.  She 
never  wore  the  flowers  ;  they  were  disposed  in  vases  in 
her  drawing-room  where  all  might  see  and  enjoy  them. 
She  was  a  woman  who  did  not  seek  herself  even  in  this 
homage  that  was  poured  so  lavishly  at  her  feet. 


III. 

TO-DAY  he  was  as  usual  pouring  out  his  heart  to  her. 
"  It  was  the  most  curious  thing,"  he  was  saying,  "the 
effect  produced  upon  me  that  very  first  night  that  we 
met,  by  your  lightest  word.  You  had  the  queerest  in- 
fluence over  me.  I  wanted  to  weep.  When  with  you 
I  feel  as  if  I  were  in  church  ;  that  is  why  I  have  begun 
to  go  to  church  again  ;  it  brings  you  near.  Why,  I 
haven't  prayed  since  I  was  a  child." 

She  sighed  and  remained  silent. 

' '  I  want  to  tell  you  everything,  but  I  dare  not.     I 


CONQUERED  161 

fear  to  revolt  and  disturb  you.  My  dear  creature,  you 
have  no  idea  what  you  have  done  for  me.  Why,  my 
life  was  worth  nothing  to  me,  and  you  have  lifted  me 
right  up.  You  just  looked  across  the  table  at  me  and 
spoke  some  gentle  word,  and  I  was  aghast  at  myself, 
at  the  world.  Am  I  boring  you  ?" 

He  paused,  hesitating.     She  shook  her  head. 

' '  My  poor  wife  was  an  excellent  woman,  excellent  ; 
immensely  clever ;  a  great  woman.  But  there  was  no 
sympathy  between  us  ;  we  could  not  pretend  to  it." 

Then  he  uttered  this  cry  :  "Ah,  why  didn't  we  meet 
before,  you  and  I  !" 

"  It  is  surely  not  too  late  for  us  to  be  very  good 
friends, ' '  she  said  to  him  softly  and  lightly. 

His  fingers  sought  and  closed  over  her  own. 
"Friends,  Mrs.  Fenton?  Shall  it  never  be  more?" 

"Would  you  render  me  absurd?" 

"  Absurd  !"  He  flushed  to  the  roots  of  his  forehead. 
"  This  is  all  my  feeling  means  for  you — absurdity  ?" 

"  It  means,''  she  said,  "more  than  you  know." 

"  My  God  !  Dear,  dearest,  will  you  not  put  this 
dear  little  hand  in  mine  forever,  then  ?  Will  you  not 
marry  me?" 

"  I  shall  never  marry  again." 

"And  is  this  your  last  word?" 

"My  last  word." 

' '  What  do  you  mean  to  do  with  me,  then  ?' ' 

He  looked  so  forlorn,  with  a  sort  of  boyish  discomfit- 
ure so  incongruous  in  a  man  of  his  years  and  assurance, 
that  the  ghost  of  that  fleeting  smile  which  spoke  to  him 
a  language  none  other  should  ever  read — he  liked  this 
monopoly — rose  to  her  mouth. 

"Why,  why,"  she  faltered,  "  I  am  not  the  arbiter  of 
your  fate." 

/  14* 


1 62  CONQUERED 

"Are  you  not?" 

"You  frighten  me." 

"What  a  child  you  are  !" 

Then  they  both  laughed,  she  a  little  mournfully. 

"Indeed,  indeed,  by  what  right,  Mr.  Trevor,  do  you 
put  this  responsibility  upon  me  ?' ' 

"Dear,  let  me  tell  you;  it  just  came;  I  cannot 
explain  it.  But  it  is  true  what  I  say,  that  you  seem 
a  child  to  me ;  you  are  not  in  the  least  the  sort  of 
woman  I  ever  admired  before.  I  must  always  tell 
you  the  plain  truth  ;  I  must  be  frank.  If  any  one  had 

told  me  that  I  should  love  a  saint But  that  is  just 

it.     I  hate  now  every  woman  who  is  not  just  like  you  ; 
and  there  are  none,  so,  you  see,  I  am  your  slave." 

"Hush." 

c '  Can  I  come  again  next  Monday  ?' '  It  was  usually 
on  a  Monday  that  he  came  to  see  her.  She  gave  him 
no  answer. 

"Let  me  come,  let  me  come!  Do  not  drive  me 
away  ;  see,  I  will  not  tease  you ;  I  will  do  you  no 
harm,"  he  said,  with  heat. 

"Yes,  come,  then." 

' '  Will  you  take  my  arm  to  the  end  of  the  walk  ? 
Lean  on  me  ;  it  cheers  and  comforts  me  a  little  bit." 

He  guided  her  with  tenderest  homage  and  respect  to 
her  own  door. 

"  Au  revoir"  He  waved  his  hat  to  her  and  he 
walked  away. 

"Good-by." 

It  was  almost  a  weariness  to  her,  this  excitement. 
And  yet,  and  yet,  she  did  not  break  with  him,  not 
entirely.  She  told  herself  that  she  was  very  weak. 

Her  daughters  spoke  together  of  "  mamma's  adorer," 
and  asked  her  once  some  questions.  Her  son  wrote  to 


CONQUERED  163 

his  brother  in  the  West :  ' '  Old  Trevor  is  sweet  on 
the  mimmy ;  sends  roses  and  such  like.  What  a 
comedy  !" 

He  viewed  the  whole  affair  as  a  vast  joke ;  he  cer- 
tainly could  not  take  seriously  the  thought  that  his 
mother  was  indulging  in  a  flirtation,  and  as  to  marriage, 
the  mere  idea  would  have  sent  him  into  uproarious 
laughter. 

Nevertheless,  Mr.  Trevor  continued  to  come.  He 
looked  thin  in  these  days,  and  worn  ;  his  appetite  was 
gone.  One  day  he  complained  of  feeling  poorly,  of 
palpitations.  Mrs.  Fenton  ministered  to  him  ;  made 
him  a  warm  draught  herself ;  arranged  a  pillow  on  the 
sofa  behind  him  ;  hovered  about  him  as  women  do  on 
such  occasions. 

Her  breath,  sweet  as  an  infant's,  touched  his  hot 
brow. 

When  he  left  that  day,  he  pressed  her  hand  in  his  at 
parting.  Did  he  feel  a  slight,  very  slight  pressure  in 
return  ? 

All  the  way  home  he  tortured  himself  with  the  ques- 
tion :  Had  she  really  pressed  his  hand,  or  was  it  all 
imagination?  Being  pessimistic,  where  she  was  con- 
cerned, he  was  inclined  to  think  himself  the  dupe  of 
his  desire.  With  all  the  beautiful,  sparkling  and  even 
naughty  young  women  whom  he  had  known  in  his  life, 
he  had  felt  none  of  this  self-distrust.  It  had  been  left 
to  this  woman  of  fifty  to  make  him  humble.  He  lived 
in  constant  fear  of  shocking  her  delicacy  or  of  disturb- 
ing that  soft  serenity  which  he  revered.  He  remem- 
bered the  sensitive  lines  of  her  face,  the  reserve  of  her 
manner,  and  wished  he  might  go  back  and  look  up  for- 
ever into  those  sweet,  sad  eyes. 

He  liked  to  be  teased  about  her ;  he  laid  traps  for 


1 64  CONQUERED 

such  teasing  to  his  daughter.  When  Mattie  asked  him 
if  he  had  been  to  Mrs.  Fenton's,  he  would  answer 
enigmatically,  like  a  very  school-boy  proud  of  a  first 
love-affair.  His  other  daughters  maintained  a  cold 
silence  with  him  on  the  subject,  and  an  attitude  of 
marked  disapproval ;  but  Mattie  was  beginning  to  sym- 
pathize. Who  knows?  perhaps  Mattie  had  fathomed 
under  the  flippancy  of  her  father's  exterior,  the  un- 
spoken tragedy  of  a  lonely  heart, — a  heart  bursting  with 
affection  and  constantly  rebuffed,  craving  happiness  in 
the  emotions  and  fighting  blindly  to  satisfy  them. 

If  it  is  hard  for  a  rich  man  to  penetrate  into  heaven, 
— and  we  have  high  authority  for  the  assertion, — it  is 
equally  difficult  for  him  to  conquer  love  for  himself  and 
not  for  the  benefit  which  he  may  confer.  Mr.  Trevor 
may  have  guessed  this.  Hand  seeks  hand  ;  heart  pants 
for  heart.  This  desire  for  requital  cannot  be  sinful,  since 
to  the  human  the  human  was  given.  The  answer  to 
inan's  cry  of  loneliness  was  the  incarnation. 

"She  does  not  care  for  him,  poor  papa,"  thought 
Mattie,  and  she  felt  sorry.  She  had  always  been  prone 
to  think  of  him  as  "poor  papa," — why,  she  could  not 
have  made  clear.  He  was  so  different  now.  Mattie 
was  penetrating  the  hidden  motor  of  this  change.  Even 
the  beloved  club  was  almost  abjured.  He  still  dressed 
scrupulously,  but  with  less  dandyism  ;  and  his  jovial 
manner  had  gained  a  certain  dignity,  more  becoming  a 
man  of  his  age.  She  did  not  think,  however,  that  he 
looked  well  in  health,  and  she  spoke  of  this  to  her 
sisters. 

Two  days  after  his  last  visit,  some  flowers  came  by 
express  addressed  to  Mrs.  Fenton  ;  they  were  still  wet, 
as  though  with  dew ;  among  them  lay,  in  a  tiny  en- 
velope, a  card.  Upon  it  was  written  : 


CONQUERED  165 

"To  the  sweetest  woman  on  the  earth,  from  her 
grateful  and  devoted  servant." 

She  read  it  over  two  or  three  times. 

"  It  is  extraordinary, ' '  thought  she  ;  then  she  added, 
after  a  pause,  ' '  What  a  perfect  gentleman  he  has  been 
to  me  !" 

She  began  to  ponder  over  his  visits  and  to  wonder, 
if  they  were  discontinued,  how  greatly  she  would  miss 
them.  With  a  certain  unexplained  presage  of  loss,  "  I 
should  miss  them,"  she  thought.  Her  sudden  appre- 
ciation of  her  dependence  on  him  was  not  expressed 
in  dramatic  phraseology.  Perhaps  it  was  no  less  forci- 
ble. Dithyrambs  belittle. 

The  lamps  were  brought  in.  One  of  the  servants 
came  with  the  mail.  She  turned  indifferently  to  the 
evening  paper ;  she  would  have  time  to  scan  its  head- 
lines before  her  boy  arrived,  and  it  should  be  the  hour 
to  dress  for  their  dinner. 

A  name  on  the  first  page  arrested  her  hand ;  her 
eyes  closed,  and  then  opened,  dilating  in  swift  terror. 
It  only  took  her  a  moment  to  scan  it  all.  Mr.  Trevor 
— the  announcement  was  made  duly  sensational — had 
fallen  dead,  of  the  heart,  at  his  club  that  afternoon,  as 
the  journal  she  held  was  going  to  press.  His  body  still 
lay  there,  unclaimed  by  his  family,  in  one  of  the  upper 
chambers.  There  were  various  hideous  details  upon 
which  the  paper  gloated. 

She  seemed  to  see  the  awful  loneliness  of  the  figure 
on  this  club  bed.  She  could  realize  its  stiffness  under 
the  sheet  with  which  they  had  covered  it.  She  remem- 
bered the  warm  clasp  of  his  hand  upon  her  own.  How 
did  it  look  now  ? 

Her  son  arrived.  He  kissed  her.  He  spoke  of  Mr. 
Trevor's  death.  He  gave  her  a  few  more  particulars. 


1 66  CONQUERED 

"You  will  miss  his  visits,  mother,"  he  said,  kindly  ; 
"  he  seemed  awfully  fond  of  you  ;  he  wasn't  half  a  bad 
fellow.  Let  me  see, — he  can't  have  been  sixty ;  he  was 
a  vigorous-looking  man.  Bless  me  !  did  he  send  you 
all  those  roses  to  day  ?' ' 

She  said,  "Yes,"  and  then  her  son  left  her.  She 
threw  a  lace  scarf  over  her  hair,  a  wrap  about  her 
shoulders,  and  went  out  into  the  dark. 

The  twilight  was  over.  The  moon  was  rising ;  it 
shone  rayless,  opaque,  between  the  trees,  like  some 
great  ball  of  blood-red  brass.  There  were  driven 
clouds  in  the  sky,  but  the  wind  made  no  sound ;  over 
all  lay  the  brooding  stillness  of  the  creeping  night. 
The  air  was  a  little  chill,  and  she  drew  the  lace  up 
closely  under  her  chin.  She  hurried  down  the  leafy 
alley,  where  they  had  walked  so  often,  he  pleading  his 
suit,  she  listless,  saying  nothing,  often  cold,  hardly  ever 
really  kind, — always  thinking  of  her  position,  her  chil- 
dren, the  possible  advent  of  a  neighbor,  the  certain 
espionage  of  her  servants ;  of  what  was  ridiculous  in 
the  situation ;  of  everything,  in  fact,  except  that  a 
human  soul  had  cried  to  her,  and  that  she  had  an- 
swered its  demands  in  so  niggardly  and  miserly  a 
fashion. 

Chained,  as  are  women  of  her  type,  by  prejudice  and 
custom,  she  remembered  all  the  chivalrous  devotion 
which,  now  for  two  long  years  of  a  life  which  was  so 
quickly  ebbing,  he  had  lavished  upon  her.  He,  a  man 
whose  name  a  hundred  women  would  have  been  glad 
and  proud  to  bear  !  Then  suddenly  she  thought, — 

"I  will  be  nicer  to  him  next  Monday.  I  will 
explain " 

Then  a  swift  pang  shot  through  her  veins,  and  she 
knew  that  the  Monday  would  come,  and  then  another, 


CONQUERED  167 

and  yet  another,  but  that  no  Monday,  now  or  ever 
hereafter,  would  bring  her  friend  and  lover  back  to  her 
side, — never,  never,  never  again.  A  sudden  anguish 
she  could  not  account  for,  a  sense  of  something  irrev- 
ocable, final,  bottomless,  hopeless,  inaccessible,  held 
her  in  its  grip,  and  a  voiceless,  smothered  cry  rent  her 
breast.  Tears  gushed  from  her  eyes — sad,  bitter  waters 
— which  fell  upon  her  hands  and  seemed  to  wither 
them. 

To  her  children,  no  doubt,  she  was  valuable  and 
dear.  Her  Western  son  wrote  to  her  of  his  ventures 
in  cattle  and  horses,  of  his  new  granges  for  wheat,  of 
the  sheep,  their  shearing,  their  health  and  diseases,  of 
the  fresh  tracts  of  land  he  wished  to  add  to  his  already 
increasing  acres.  He  had  asked  her  to  advance  money 
to  him  for  this  purpose.  Her  daughters  told  her  of 
their  pleasures  ;  she  was  a  constant  witness  of  their 
happiness  and  prosperity.  When  she  went  to  their 
homes,  she  found  them  full  of  plans  and  projects  ; 
they  had  hardly  time  to  listen  to  her  own.  One  of 
them  was  building  a  house  ;  the  other  was  soon  to  be- 
come a  mother.  These  things  filled  the  whole  horizon 
of  their  world.  Her  youngest  son,  when  not  engaged 
in  the  ardent  pursuit  of  his  career,  was  quick  to  seize 
the  latch-key  and  hurry  to  a  neighboring  country-seat, 
where  a  pair  of  bright  eyes  fascinated  and  held  him, 
so  late,  sometimes,  that  his  mother,  tossing  wakeful, 
feared  some  harm  had  come  to  his  horse  and  himself 
upon  the  lonesome  highway. 

Yes,  she  was  precious,  no  doubt,  to  these,  as  we  are 
prized  by  those  to  whom  we  listen  patiently,  claiming 
no  great  return  of  sympathy  and  interest.  Her  few 
relatives,  her  neighbors,  had  for  her  a  mild  regard. 
She  was  to  them  a  habit,  a  pleasant  one — perhaps. 


1 68  CONQUERED 

She  knew  that  they  discussed  her  faults  together,  with 
an  insistence  not  devoid  of  a  pleasurable  note.  She 
knew  it,  as  we  know  certain  things  intuitively, — knew 
that  they  said  she  was  lazy,  devoid  of  proper  ambitions, 
lacking  in  hospitality. 

The  world  she  had  allowed  to  pass  by.  To  it  she 
was  indifferent,  and,  therefore,  it  was  beginning  to 
ignore  her.  She  had  been  a  little  surprised  to  find 
herself  once  or  twice  uninvited  to  some  great  function 
at  which,  when  her  daughters  were  still  with  her,  she 
would  surely  have  been  bidden.  To-night,  in  the 
midst  of  this  emotion,  the  memory  of  this  slight  arose 
and  stung  her.  Was  she  being  forgotten,  forsaken, 
left  out  ? 

Demosthenes  tells  us  that  old  and  insignificant  sprains 
and  wounds  revive  to  give  us  pain  when  some  new 
malady  befalls  us. 

There  was  no  doubt  of  it,  then,  to  the  world  ;  yea, 
even  to  her  children,  she  was,  after  all,  but  an  old 
woman, — to  be  cared  for,  no  doubt ;  to  be  loved  within 
limits.  To  the  latter  she  would  soon  become  a  cause 
of  solicitude, — who  knows?  perhaps  an  incubus.  But 
she  knew  that  to  him  she  had  seemed  young  and  beau- 
tiful. He  had  craved  her  companionship  beyond  all 
other.  In  it  he  had  been  invigorated  and  elevated. 
He  had  held  her  hand  in  his,  and  its  touch  had  given 
him  strength. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  despair  fell  upon  Mrs. 
Fenton, — such  despair  as  she  had  never  reached  before  ; 
no,  not  at  her  husband's  grave  had  her  lament  been  so 
irremediable.  Then  she  had  still  possessed  the  pro- 
tecting affection  of  a  mother,  and  her  own  children  had 
been  dependent  and  helpless.  She  herself,  in  those 
days,  had  been  young  and  strong.  The  loneliness  of 


CONQUERED  169 

age  came  forth  and  stood  and  looked  at  her  now  with 
hungry,  eager  eyes.  It  pulled  at  her  skirts,  blanched 
her  cheek,  laid  its  chill  upon  her  forehead.  To  the 
man  who  was  dead  her  very  presence  had  brought  a 
benediction.  He  had  never  forgotten  her.  To  him 
she  had  been  most  lovable,  and,  if  she  had  seemed 
young  to  him,  in  his  presence  she  had  indeed  felt  so. 
She  thought  if  he  were  only  near  now,  she  would  lean 
just  for  one  moment  upon  his  breast  and  cry,  ' '  Forgive, 
forgive,  forgive  !' '  and  at  least  thank  him  once  for  loving 
her  so  much. 

But  she  would  never  so  speak  to  him,  because  he  was 
dead.  He  had  thought  that  he  owed  her  gratefulness, 
but  she  knew  now  all  he  had  given  to  her  and  how  little 
she  had  given  to  him.  He  had  often  asked  her — child- 
ishly, she  had  then  thought — to  call  him  by  his  Christian 
name,  and  she  had  as  often  refused,  moved  by  that  con- 
ventionality which  had  always  been  the  main-spring  of 
her  every  action.  Now  she  suddenly  kneeled  upon  the 
damp  grass  and  with  streaming  eyes  called  him  by  his 
name,  first  in  a  whisper,  then  more  loudly, — nay,  by 
every  tender  appellation  that  a  loving  woman  can  in- 
vent with  which  to  invoke  an  absent  loved  one  whom 
she  has  wronged  and  pained.  She  leaned  her  head 
against  a  tree-trunk,  and  it  was  here,  in  desolation,  that 
she  sobbed  forth  to  him  a  last  farewell. 

She  did  not  appeal  at  dinner,  and  her  son  did  not 
intrude  upon  her  privacy  that  night. 

In  the  Trevor  household  there  was  great  confusion. 
Hurriedly  summoned,  young  Mr.  Trevor  and  his  hand- 
some wife,  Mrs.  Fothergill  in  her  rich  dinner  dress, 
Mattie  with  her  hair  upon  her  shoulders,  Mrs.  Gregory 
Gray  in  a  tea  gown,  were  gathered  together  where  the 

H  '5 


1 70  CONQUERED 

father  lay.  A  physician  and  nurse  were  undressing  the 
lifeless  body,  which  an  ambulance  had,  by  special  per- 
mission, been  allowed  to  remove  to  the  dead  man's 
home. 

"There's  some  hard  substance  here  against  the 
heart,"  said  the  physician. 

"Why,  it  is  a  picture  !"  said  Mattie's  husband,  with 
foolish  surprise. 

Mrs.  Fothergill,  frowning,  took  it  from  her  brother- 
in-law's  hand.  It  was  a  photograph  of  Mrs.  Gardiner 
Fenton.  It  represented  her  as  many  years  younger 
than  she  now  was,  sitting  on  a  balcony,  in  a  somewhat 
strained  and  sentimental  pose,  for  which  the  artist,  not 
the  model,  was  evidently  responsible.  Mrs.  Fothergill 
made  a  slight  grimace  through  her  tears  : 

"It  is  that  .  .  .  that  woman  ;  what  shall  I  do  with 
it?" 

"  Give  it  to  me,"  said  Mattie. 

Upstairs,  the  poet,  a  few  hours  later,  was  sitting  in 
his  pajamas  at  his  desk,  writing  an  "Ode  to  Death." 
He  had  penned  the  first  two  lines,  but  could  get  no 
further.  His  bare  feet,  which  were  thrust  into  the  same 
slipper,  were  cold  ;  his  brain  vacuous. 

"The  critics,"  he  reflected,  bitterly,  "no  doubt  think 
an  Ode  to  Death  a  very  easy  thing  to  throw  off ;  but 
I'll  be  hanged  if  it  is  as  much  of  a  joke  as  they  imagine. 
If  it  is,  I  wish  they'd  just  come  on  and  do  it  them- 
selves." .  .  .  "And  I'm  nearly  frozen,  too,"  he  mut- 
tered, after  a  pause,  under  his  breath. 

He  hoped  that  Mattie  would  not  come  to  the  door 
and  find  him  there.  She  might  think  him  heartless. 
At  such  a  moment  he  could  hardly  make  her  under- 
stand the  extreme  coyness  of  his  muse  and  that  he 


CONQUERED  171 

dared  not  discourage  her  advances  when  she  was  in  the 
least  amiable. 

But  Mattie  was  not  thinking  of  her  lord.  At  mid- 
night, when  the  lone  watcher,  whose  duty  it  was  to  be 
wakeful,  had  fallen  into  a  doze,  the  young  woman  stole 
in  on  tiptoe,  looking  like  a  ghost  in  her  long,  white 
peignoir.  She  neared  the  bed  where  lay  her  dead 
father,  and,  quickly  opening  the  shirt  which  covered  his 
heart,  she  thrust  the  photograph  again  upon  his  silent 
breast,  under  the  flowers  which  already  profusely  cov- 
ered it.  The  hastily  procured  waxen  tuberoses  and 
violets  filled  the  apartment  with  their  cloying  sweetness. 

"There,  dear,  you  shall  have  her,"  she  said,  in  a 
tone  with  which  one  would  grant  a  favor  to  some  fret- 
ful and  indulged  child ;  and,  as  she  spoke,  she  laid  a 
tender  hand  upon  those  sunken  eyelids  which  never 
more  would  flutter  at  her  approach. 


Raking  Straws 


i. 

SHE  was  a  pretty  little  girl,  quiet  of  speech  and  ges- 
ture, seemingly  fond  of  order,  systematic  in  her 
studies  ;  but  there  were  those  who  said  that  when  she 
did  romp — which  was  seldom — she  romped  to  wildness. 
After  these  infrequent  ebullitions  she  relapsed  once  more 
into  absolute  calm.  She  was  reputed  to  be  silent  ; 
hence  great  surprise,  on  one  occasion,  when  she  arose 
to  justify  an  accused  companion,  and  indulged  in  a  burst 
of  eloquence  that  cleared  the  unjustly  criminated  cul- 
prit, and  covered  herself  with  blushes  and  glory. 
Weary  Miss  Bell,  who  taught  us  good  English  and  high 
art,  came  down  from  her  "form"  and  passed  a  gentle 
finger  over  Madeline's  hair  ;  and  Monsieur  Pallain,  the 
French  professor,  wept,  blowing  his  nose  loudly  on  his 
purple  cotton  handkerchief.  ' '  She  has  a  generous 
heart,"  he  said,  snuffling,  "  and  the  dramatic  instinct. " 
This  last  suggestion  bore  fruit  in  a  remarkable  per- 
formance of  Shakespeare's  "Julius  Caesar."  En- 
veloped in  sheets  draped  to  represent  togas,  some  worn 
rakishly,  with  the  "loose  girdle,"  commemorative  of 
172 


RAKING  STRAWS  173 

the  hero  himself,  we  assumed  the  roles  of  the  Roman 
conspirators.  One  young  lady  brandished  the  kitchen 
poker — loaned  by  the  cook,  Mrs.  Lemon — in  lieu  of  a 
dirk,  while  she  rent  the  air  and  our  souls  by  her  ad- 
jurations to  "Friends,  Romans,  Countrymen  !"  The 
said  Mrs.  Lemon,  it  must  be  admitted,  did  not  rise  to 
the  occasion,  but  tittered  audibly  and  frivolously  from 
a  neighboring  door- way,  where  a  number  of  maids  were 
heaped  up  and  gaping.  In  the  mean  while,  Madeline, 
pointing  tragically  with  her  little  rosy  thumb  to  the 
flaunting  red  of  a  tattered  table-cloth,  hissed  in  piercing 
accents  which  thrilled  the  expectant  audience,  while 
her  girlish  face  was  drawn  like  that  of  a  young  faun  in 
pain  :  "See  what  a  rent  the  envious  Casca  made  !" 

Once  more  Madeline  covered  herself  with  laurels, 
relapsing  the  next  day  into  her  usual  repose. 

Monsieur  Pallain  had  been  greatly  impressed  :  he 
predicted  that,  if  she  should  make  the  stage  her  career, 
Rachel's  successes  would  be  but  a  shadowy  intimation 
of  Madeline's  fame.  ' '  She  subjugates  !' '  he  said.  ' '  She 
appeals  to  the  heart.  This  appeal  has  no  year,  no 
period,  no  fashion.  A  mere  representation  of  modern 
society — that  is  ephemeral.  We  must  touch  the  human- 
ities. They  have  no  age.  She  is  a  great  tragedienne" 
Some  girls  who  did  not  like  Madeline  declared  that 
Monsieur  Pallain  was  prejudiced.  They  concluded  that 
a  verdict  upon  all  achievement,  as  upon  beauty,  must 
be  something  higher  than  the  expression  of  mere  per- 
sonal predilection  or  distaste. 

It  was  difficult,  after  such  amusements,  to  put  our 
minds  upon  our  lessons.  Julius  Caesar  had  demoralized 
us — a  way  of  his  with  women,  Suetonius  tells  us.  A 
lecture  on  archaeological  research,  given  to  us  by  a 
well-known  professor  of  history,  we  found  somewhat 

15* 


174  RAKING  STRAWS 

archaic.  He  told  us  about  twelve  thousand  mounds 
and  six  hundred  excavations  which  had  recently  been 
made.  He  gave  us  most  interesting  information  con- 
cerning the  abodes  of  dwellers  in  the  stone  age,  their 
artificial  and  natural  grottos,  and  the  money  which 
they  used.  He  threw  in  the  periods  of  iron  and  brass  ; 
but  I  fear  we  were  extremely  inattentive.  We  found 
him  tame. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  Madeline  had  risen  to  con- 
siderable importance.  She  was  criticised,  but  sought 
after.  Feminine  creatures  never  slight  or  neglect  the 
rival  of  whom  they  are  really  afraid.  Alva  Greene, 
who  was  the  most  beautiful,  the  most  spoiled,  and  the 
richest  girl  in  the  class,  did  her  the  honor  of  inviting 
her  to  a  clandestine  party  in  her  room,  to  eat  sponge- 
cake and  Japanese  persimmons,  at  four  o'clock.  The 
product  of  this  small  but  fruitful  bush  met  with  great 
favor.  Madeline,  who  was  usually  a  gourmet,  con- 
victed herself,  on  this  occasion,  of  being  a  gourmande  ; 
she  devoured  eight  of  the  juicy  fruits,  and  was  ill  in 
consequence.  But  she  recovered.  To  be  hurt  is  not 
to  be  injured.  The  persimmons  were  not  intended  to 
prove  fatal. 

These  divagations  and  tendencies  to  extremes  are  an 
index  to  character.  Later,  I  remembered  them,  pon- 
dering over  the  small  and  tiny  rills  from  which  great 
waters  are  compressed  into  dangerous  floods.  Child- 
hood is  sweet  and  pallid  as  April,  and  its  memories 
must  needs  be  of  trivial  things. 

I  remembered  Monsieur  Pallain's  words  to  Madeline 
still  more  vividly  when  I  heard  that  she  was  contem- 
plating going  on  the  stage.  This  was  a  mere  rumor,  a 
ripple  from  her  world  to  my  own.  Several  years  had 
elapsed  since  we  had  left  Miss  Bell's  school.  We  lived 


RAKING  STRAWS  175 

in  different  cities ;  we  had  drifted  apart.  It  was  said 
that  this  desire  on  her  part  had  caused  a  quarrel  with 
her  family,  that  her  father  had  died,  cutting  her  off 
from  all  share  in  his  fortune.  He  belonged  to  that  old- 
fashioned  school  of  parent  who  considers  that  any  form 
of  restlessness  or  ambition  in  a  female  thing  marks  her 
as  a  Delilah.  As  such,  therefore,  he  saw  fit  to  adver- 
tise her  to  an  ungenerous  world. 

Then  came  a  brief  silence  about  her,  until  we  read 
one  morning  in  the  papers  that  she  had  suddenly  mar- 
ried a  naval  officer,  and  gone  with  him  to  the  South 
Pacific,  or  the  North  pole,  or  some  other  equally  dis- 
piriting region.  She  drifted  into  port  once  more,  about 
five  years  later,  her  sails  a  little  wind- worn,  her  anchor 
a  trifle  rusty,  her  rigging  somewhat  strained, — in  other 
words,  she  came  back  and  was  "talked  about."  The 
naval  officer  had  proved  a  poor  investment.  People 
said  he  had  been  coarse  and  intemperate  ;  at  any  rate, 
Madeline  had  found  him  so.  There  had  been  unhappi- 
ness,  an  unhappiness  not  untinged  by  a  breath  of  scan- 
dal. Madeline  had  lovely  eyes.  It  seems  that  the 
commander's  first  lieutenant  had  told  her  so ;  and  it 
was  while  she  was  repudiating  the  charge  that  her  hus- 
band entered  her  presence,  they  said,  and  brandished  a 
revolver.  It  had  all  ended  in  ridicule  cast  upon  him- 
self. It  had  been  proved  that  there  was  nothing  what- 
ever, except  that  he  was  very  drunk.  And  in  a  wild 
debauch,  shortly  after  this,  he  went  to  his  reckoning 
and  left  her — free. 

I  heard  she  was  passing  through  New  York  eighteen 
months  afterwards.  I  went  to  see  her.  It  was  then 
she  told  me  she  had  never  loved  the  man,  her  husband  ; 
but  she  had  pitied  him.  She  was  stopping  in  two 
modest  ground-floor  rooms  in  a  lodging-house  on  a 


176  RAKING  STRAWS 

quiet  street,  and  there  I  found  her  one  damp  afternoon. 
She  told  me  she  thought  she  should  stay  all  winter. 
When  I  was  announced,  she  was  sitting  by  the  fare, 
alone.  Her  little  dog,  who  had  just  come  in,  and  smelt 
of  the  rain,  was  warming  himself  on  the  hearth-rug  at 
her  feet.  I  recall  perfectly  how  she  came  forward  to 
meet  me  with  outstretched,  welcoming  hands,  and  her 
fair  hair  and  her  winning  voice.  She  made  upon  me  a 
strong  impression  of  charm.  When  I  had  been  with 
her  a  half  hour,  I  was  convinced  that  she  was  the  most 
innocent  of  women,  and  the  most  wronged.  Her  family 
had  been  unkind  to  her.  They  had  disliked  her  thought 
of  the  stage,  and  they  had  disliked  her  marriage  ;  she 
laughed  and  said,  "After  the  manner  of  families." 
And  then,  just  when  they  had  forgiven  her,  there  was 
the  trouble  with  her  husband,  and  a  second  quarrel  with 
her  relatives  ;  and  this  time  she  was  herself  less  easily 
placated.  ' '  I  will  let  them  alone  !' '  she  said,  with  a 
vibration  of  anger  in  her  voice.  "  There's  room  enough 
in  your  big  town  for  my  obscurity  and  my  insignificance. 
Let  them  give  me  peace  ;  that  is  all  I  ask." 

She  admired  me  very  much  ;  what  she  was  pleased 
to  call  my  beauty,  the  tones  of  my  voice,  my  pretty 
gown,  my  furs,  in  fact,  everything  that  I  wore.  She 
stroked  my  hands  and  said  singular  and  flattering 
things  to  me.  Her  manners  were  dignified  and  gen- 
tle. When  I  rose  to  depart  she  ran  to  the  table,  and 
took  some  red  carnations  from  a  vase,  and  tied  them 
into  a  nosegay  for  my  corsage.  "  It  was  a  queenly 
thing  for  you  to  do,  to  come  to  me  so  soon,"  she 
said.  ' '  Tell  your  husband  I  must  see  you  now  and 
then.  It  can  do  you  no  hurt  ;  it  would  be  life  to  me 
in  my  dulness.  I  have  very  little  money,  you  know, 
although  the  commander  did,  in  the  end,  leave  me 


RAKING  STRAWS  177 

something.  But  it  is  not  enough  for  me  to  attempt 
your  world,  even  if  I  would."  As  I  approached  the 
table,  offering  her  my  handkerchief  to  dry  the  stems 
of  the  dripping  flowers,  I  noticed  a  photograph  which 
reposed  under  her  lamp,  in  a  handsome  gilded  frame. 
It  looked  familiar  to  me.  I  stopped  to  examine  it,  and 
uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise.  It  was  the  portrait 
of  Templeton  Vane,  a  young  bachelor  and  intimate 
friend  of  my  husband's,  and  a  sufficiently  good  friend 
of  my  own.  It  was  not  until  I  got  into  my  brougham 
that  I  wondered  why  Mr.  Vane  himself  had  never 
spoken  to  me  of  his  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Avery.  I 
remembered  talking  of  her  in  his  presence  once,  at  our 
table,  and  that  he  said  no  word.  I  had  made  the  re- 
mark that  Mrs.  Avery  seemed  to  me  to  possess  one  of 
those  profound  and  moving  natures  that  attach  and  that 
are  rarely  forsaken,  and  that  I  believed  her  reserved  for 
some  favorable  turn  of  fortune.  To  this  he  had  replied 
nothing.  I  had  not  insisted.  He  was  not  one  of  those 
who  inspire  us  to  discuss  characteristics.  His  was  a 
keen  but  vulgar  intelligence.  His  sympathies,  if  he 
possessed  any,  dwelt  for  me  in  inaccessible  places  of  his 
soul.  He  was  of  an  insouciant,  generally  amiable 
humor,  egotistical  without  pronounced  vanity,  self-sat- 
isfied without  anxieties  or  revolts  of  temper.  Of  a 
superb  health  and  physique,  he  was  not  one  of  those 
highly  organized  beings  in  whom  sensation  becomes, 
in  its  extreme,  pain.  Like  Montaigne,  he  was  capable 
of  going  to  sleep  on  the  pillow  of  doubt.  He  was  con- 
ceited about  his  taste,  thought  his  ideals  in  art  high, 
because  he  had  been  disappointed  in  Venice,  and  dis- 
illusioned by  the  pyramids,  which,  he  said,  "were  poor 
work  after  all." 

This  is  a  long  parenthesis.     When  I  saw  his  photo- 


1 78  RAKING  STRAWS 

graph  on  Madeline's  table,  I  asked  her  point  blank 
where  she  got  it. 

"Why,  Mr.  Vane  gave  it  to  me." 

"Ah!" 

"He  was  on  the  ship  with  me  from  Savannah,  last 
year,"  she  said,  vaguely. 

"And  you  see  him  ?" 

"O  comme  ca — now  and  then.  He  has  called."  I 
scanned  her  narrowly.  She  flushed.  I  felt  like  apolo- 
gizing. I  did  not  ask  her  what  she  thought  of  him, 
but  I  remembered  his  mamma,  and  wondered  if  a 
warning  to  her,  to  him,  or  to  somebody,  were  not  my 
duty. 

I  mentioned  all  these  facts  and  my  last  dilemma  to 
my  adoring  husband,  on  my  way  to  a  ball  that  night. 

"Hum  !  Hum  !"  flowed  this  fountain  of  wisdom  ; 
' '  I  should  think  much  the  best  thing  you  could  do  was 
to  keep  out  of  the  whole  concern.  A  woman  with  a 
shadow  on  her  ;  Mrs.  Vane,  a  regular  old  dragon  ;  and 
Templeton,  the  best  hearted  fellow  in  the  world,  but 
selfish  through  over-petting  by  the  women." 

I  took  up  the  cudgels  violently  for  my  old  school- 
mate. ' '  A  shadow  on  her  !  Are  you  not  ashamed  ? 
What !  A  drunken,  miserable  husband,  a  horrid,  nasty 
family,  and  now  poverty  and  loneliness  !  And  you 
want  me  to  drop  her  ?  Never,  never,  never  !  Temple- 
ton  is  selfish,  I  know  it.  She'd  have  the  worst  of  the 
bargain.  As  for  him,  he'd  have  good  luck  to  get  such 
a  pretty  wife."  My  husband  pricked  up  his  ears  at 
this  last  remark.  To  the  male  a  pretty  woman  is  always 
a  pretty  woman.  For  a  loving  woman  there  is  but  one 
man  living — her  lover.  For  men  the  horizon  is  less 
contracted. 

"Why  don't  you  ask  her  to  dinner?     You  were 


RAKING  STRAWS  1 79 

complaining  that  married  dinners  were  so  stupid.  A 
widow  slips  in  conveniently  in  a  party  of  twelve." 

"Well!" 

"Well,  what?" 

"  I  thought  you  didn't  want  me  to  play  with  her." 

"  Did  I  say  so?  You  put  the  words  in  my  mouth, 
dearest. ' ' 

"Don't  say  'dearest'  in  that  glib  tone;  it  annoys 
me.  I  thought  you  promised  when  we  married  to 
avoid  conjugal  platitudes.  You  are  getting  the  marital 
whine." 

"  No  doubt,  I  am  a  very  ordinary  man.  You  took 
the  gentleman  who  loved  you  for  a  great  personage,  as 
every  other  woman  has  done  since  the  world  began,  and 
now  that  your  sentiment  has  changed  you  are  disap- 
pointed." Then  we  kissed  each  other. 

Later  he  said,  "There's  matter  for  quite  a  drama  in 
this  thing,  if  there's  anything  in  it  at  all.  Mrs.  Vane 
would  be  furious.  She  expects  Templeton  either  not 
to  marry  at  all,  or  to  get  a  prize, — like  Alva  Greene,  for 
instance." 

' '  Alva  Greene  !  .  .  .  You  call  that  a  prize  ?' ' 

"What  is  the  matter  with  Alva  Greene?" 

"Alva  Greene  is  a  serpent,"  I  said,  decidedly.  Then 
we  discussed  the  social  era  and  politics,  and  drew  up  to 
the  door  of  the  palace,  where  the  ball  was  already  in 
full  swing. 

II. 

FINDING  my  husband  willing  to  be  conciliated  by  my 
pretty  friend,  I  drove  to  her  lodgings  one  afternoon,  to 
see  if  I  could  persuade  her  to  dine  with  us.  She  ex- 
pressed the  determination  of  leading  a  retired  life,  and 
declared  herself  content  with  books  and  music,  and  a 


I  So  RAKING  STRAWS 

few  friends.  Of  Vane  we  did  not  speak  again.  I  had 
seen  him  only  in  the  world  and  respected  his  reticence. 
When  I  reached  Mrs.  Avery's  door  I  was  told  that  she 
was  out.  "  She's  out,"  said  the  Swede  who  opened  it, 
"and  she  didn't  left  no  word."  But  the  landlady 
emerged  from  a  distant  corridor  and  contradicted  him. 
She  told  me  that  orders  had,  upon  the  contrary,  been 
left,  that  if  I  came  I  was  to  be  asked  to  wait  for  a  mo- 
ment, as  Mrs.  Avery  would  be  at  home  at  five  o'  clock. 
I  would  find  fire  and  light  within.  It  was  now  only 
half-past  four,  but  -I  determined  to  wait.  I  found  a 
bright  wood  fire  in  the  grate,  its  odor  mingled  grate- 
fully with  that  of  a  huge  bowl  of  hyacinths  which  orna- 
mented the  table.  The  lamp  was  lighted.  I  began  to 
fumble  over  her  books  ;  a  modern  one  upon  the  days 
of  the  Roman  republic  attracted  me.  I  adore  those 
calm  antiquities  ;  they  lift  up  to  us  the  torches  that 
light  the  centuries  ;  they  rescue  us  from  the  poverty 
and  meanness  of  our  modern  tinsel.  I  was  soon  lost  in 
the  enticing  pages,  drawing  draughts  of  delight  from 
the  breath  of  those  mountain  summits  of  the  past 
which,  if  criminal,  at  least  were  great.  I  became  a 
pagan.  I  sang  the  song  of  early  Italy.  The  cold 
fogs  of  my  northern  blood  rolled  away.  I  bathed  in 
the  amphitheatre's  sunshine,  and  steeped  myself  in 
that  turbulent  life,  so  curiously  crystallized  upon  the 
page. 

Just  then  there  was  a  creaking  of  the  door,  a  wave  of 
the  portiere  which  shrouded  it.  A  man  stepped  across 
the  threshold.  Templeton  Vane  entered.  I  threw 
down  the  book  which  had  so  engrossed  me.  ' '  I  was 
just  learning  to  fly,"  I  said  to  him,  "and  your  arrival 
clips  my  wings.  I  was  reading  about  living  creatures, 
• — women  with  bodies  and  men  with  brains,  and  no 


RAKING  STRAWS  181 

morals.  I  was  reading  the  truth.  Truth  is  immoral. 
Don't  ask  me  how  I  liked  the  ball.  There  were  only 
stuffed  dolls  present." 

He  laughed.  "Do  you  think  feeling  died  out  in 
Nero's  time?" 

"How  can  I  tell?" 

He  took  off  his  coat,  and  seating  himself  at  the 
table,  began  to  play  with  the  paper-knife.  "I've  a 
great  mind" — after  a  moment's  embarrassed  silence — 
' '  to  make  a  confession  to  you,  since  you  are  here,  and, 
while  we  wait  for  Mrs.  Avery."  My  heart  gave  a  jump. 
I  scented  a  love-affair.  It  seemed  to  promise  piquancy. 
"I  am  very  unhappy,"  he  began,  "perfectly  miser- 
able  " 

"  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it."  He  laughed  again  ; 
he  had  certainly  an  agreeable,  gentlemanly  laughter. 
Then  I  looked  up  at  him  with  a  certain  archness  which 
my  husband  has  commended,  and  asked  him  abruptly, 
"  Won't  she  smile  on  you?" 

"We're  attached  to  each  other,"  he  said,  shortly. 

"Ah  ...  then  ..." 

' '  That  should  be  sufficient,  should  it  not  ?  And  yet 
it  isn't.  She  is  the  most  extraordinary  woman.  You 
can't  think.  She  says  she  cares  for  me,  but  feels  we 
don't  suit  each  other, — that  I  couldn't  understand  her, 
— that  nobody  ever  has, — God  knows  what !  I  don't. 
She  can't  love  me.  Why  !  for  a  week  of  her  I'd  risk 
an  eternity  of  wretchedness."  I  was  amazed.  I  had 
not  suspected  him  of  so  much  fire.  ' '  She  is  the 
daintiest  little  creature, — the  most  adorable, — heavens  ! 
you  can't  fancy  how  lovable  she  is.  Since  I  met  her  I 
have  never  budged, — never  seen  another  woman.  I 
don't  know  they  exist;  and  here, — here  she  says  'I 
love  you,'  and  yet  insists  she  can't  marry  me— that  she 

16 


1 82  RAKING  STRAWS 

is  different  from  what  I  imagine  her  to  be.     It's  all 
damned  nonsense  !" 

"And  your  mother?" 

"Oh,  my  poor  mother!  You  know  what  she  has 
been  since  my  father's  death.  She  shuts  herself  up 
with  a  lot  of  old  cronies, — she  sees  so  few  people.  I 
am  everything  to  her,  and " 

' '  Have  you  told  her  ?' ' 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  clearing  his  throat.  ' '  No, 
I  haven't.  Where's  the  use,  until  it's  all  settled?" 

I  shook  my  head.  Our  eyes  met.  He  smiled  a 
trifle  whimsically.  "Of  course,"  I  said,  "there  is 
going  to  be  opposition." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  he  answered,  laconically  ;  "  but,  of 
course,  my  own  mind  is  made  up." 

"And  you  are  quite  right,  but  how ?" 

"  Yes,  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say.  It's  a 
wretched  business — a  man  of  my  age  being  entirely  de- 
pendent on  a  woman — having  to  ask  her  for  every  six- 
pence I  draw.  But  when  I  marry  something  must 
be  settled  definitely,  or  else — or  else — I  must  go  to 
work." 

I  looked  at  him.  Somehow  his  words  did  not  bring 
conviction.  I  didn't  believe  in  his  "going  to  work." 
With  his  mother's  enormous  income  it  seemed  unneces- 
sary and  improbable.  "You  might  enter  politics  or 
diplomacy,"  I  ventured. 

"  Yes,  I  should  like  that — diplomacy — a  foreign  ap- 
pointment. My  mother's  fond  of  travelling.  She 
likes  Europe.  She  could  come  to  us."  And  it  was 
just  here  that  Mrs.  Avery,  with  her  eloquent  shoulders 
draped  in  her  Henri  IV.  cloak,  and  her  wide  hat  tipped 
over  her  soft  eyes,  came  in. 

She  greeted  us  cordially.     She  had  been  to  a  mati- 


RAKING  STRAWS  183 

n&e  at  the  opera  house,  with  some  friends,  and  ap- 
peared to  be  full  of  it.  At  least  she  began  at  once 
to  tell  us  about  it.  She  had  just  seen  "Carmen." 
She  was  extremely  enthusiastic  about  Don  Jose",  whose 
rdle  had  been  confided  to  a  certain  Signor  Valeric. 
"When  he  first  came  on,"  she  said,  as  she  loosened 
her  wrap,  and  threw  off  her  hat,  ' '  his  physique  indi- 
cated a  lack  of  fitness  for  the  part ;  but  I  knew  at  once 
that  he  was  full  of  dramatic  feeling, — of  sentiment, — 
and  I  was  not  mistaken.  He  was  marvellous  in  the 
last  act.  His  portrayal  of  the  enslaving  power  of  pas- 
sion was  entirely  free  from  Campanini's  robust  animal- 
ism. Oh,  a  masterly  performance,  no  doubt,  Campa- 
nini's ;  but  this  was  all  intensity,  dignity,  pathos,  and 
imagination.  It  awoke  a  higher  sympathy.  He  was  a 
small  man,  slightly  made,  and  he  had  the  good  taste 
never  once  to  overreach  himself,  in  voice  or  gesture. 
Where  a  part  levies  such  a  tax  upon  fierce  expression, 
and  where  nature  has  denied  powerful  muscles,  an  ath- 
letic figure,  it  exhibits  consummate  skill  to  express 
emotion  and  not  degenerate  into  hysteria.  This  tenor 
has  won  his  laurels.  He  is  very  remarkable."  It 
seemed  to  me  she  was  talking  to  conceal  embarrassment. 
Her  utterance  was  rapid,  somewhat  breathless. 

"You  seem  quite  captivated,"  said  Templeton  Vane, 
looking  annoyed. 

"  Oh,  you  know  I  am  art  mad.  Give  me  perfect  art, 
then  I  am  at  peace.  People  prate  of  morals  in  art,  as 
if  all  high  art  were  not  morally  our  teacher.  It  elevates 
because  it  detaches, — like  the  lonely  moorland,  the  far- 
off  horizon,  the  wide  expanse  of  the  heavens,  the 
sea." 

"Certainly,"  I  answered,  carried  away  by  her  en- 
thusiasm, "  we  do  not  ask  their  lessons  of  these  ;  they 


1 84  RAKING  STRAWS 

can  be  felt  but  never  spelled.  I  am  entirely  of  your 
opinion.  After  hearing  beautiful  songs,  or  seeing  fine 
pictures,  or  conning  a  clever  book,  I  realize  that  feeling 
of  detachment  from  the  paltry  and  the  trivial.  Then 
these  things  shake  us  up  from  our  lethargy.  They 
strengthen  us,  make  us  serene  and  disdainful  of  trifles. ' ' 

"Oh,  it  ought  to  be  enough  for  a  life,"  said  Mrs. 
Avery,  drawing  her  chair  up  to  the  fire,  and  putting 
one  foot  out  towards  the  flame,  ' '  to  have  been  brushed 
by  a  breath  of  it  across  the  lips  !  Now,  Mr.  Vane," 
she  said,  turning  to  him  lightly  where  he  stood  a  little 
forlornly  near  the  mantelpiece,  watching  her, — he  had 
risen  as  she  entered, — "ring  the  bell,  and  let  us  have 
some  tea,  for  after  music  the  best  one  can  offer  is  tea 
and  cakes."  The  tea  was  brought,  and  there  was  a 
little  more  talk  of  music,  and  then  Vane  came  forward 
not  ungracefully,  and  taking  her  hands,  ' '  I  have  told 
Mrs.  Leigh  everything,"  he  said.  "  Dear  Madeline, 
let  her  congratulate  us  ;  tell  her  it  is  true.  Tell  her 
that  you  will  care  for  me  a  little  !" 

She  looked  up,  crimsoning.  ' '  You  are  not  fair  to 
me,"  she  said. 

"My  child,"  I  murmured,  stepping  quickly  forward, 
"  life  is  uncertain.  Take  a  present  joy  ;  the  future  will 
care  for  itself. ' '  He  leaned  over  her,  just  touching  her 
hair  ;  never  have  I  seen  two  creatures  more  intoxicated 
by  each  other's  presence.  I  wished  to  leave  them  ; 
they  were  too  wrapped  up  in  each  other  for  my  intru- 
sive presence.  After  ail,  it  was  the  old  picture,  the 
sweet  unravelled  labyrinth  called  love.  Such  a  tableau 
was  enough  ;  why  seek  conclusions  ?  I  said  so  to  them 
as  I  donned  my  furs.  It  was  she  who  detained  me. 

"Dear,"  she  said,  turning  to  him,  "  I  am  yours,  and 
Olga  is  witness  to  my  pledge.  I  knew  last  night  it  was 


RAKING  STRAWS  185 

all  over  with  my  struggle.  In  the  hours  of  the  dawn  I 
lay  vanquished.  So,  now,  be  a  good  boy,  and  leave  us 
for  an  hour.  I  have  to  speak  with  her.  You  may 
come  back  to-night.  Now,  go." 

He  whispered  to  her  a  moment,  then  obeyed  her, 
radiant.  Once  alone  with  me,  she  passed  her  hand 
several  times  over  her  forehead,  and  then  she  came  and 
sat  herself  down  upon  a  low  cushion  close  to  my  feet, 
nestling  to  me  caressingly.  I  thought  I  had  never  seen 
her  look  so  alluring.  I  laid  one  arm  about  her  shoul- 
ders. 

"  I  am  a  poor  match  for  him,"  she  said. 

"  But  why,  dear  ?     Everything  was  explained  .  .  .  ' 

"You  don't  comprehend,"  she  said;  "it  is  the 
things  I  can't  explain — not  what  has  happened,  but 
what  I  am — that  will  make  it  difficult." 

'  'What  you  are?" 

She  smiled.  "Don't  look  alarmed;  I  have  not 
broken  all  the  laws.  It  is  my  character.  He  doesn't 
read  me  aright ;  he  doesn't  know  me." 

' '  He  says  you  are  the  gentlest,  the  sweetest  .  .  .  ' 

"Did  he  say  that?"  She  frowned  as  if  in  pain, 
biting  her  lip. 

"  Yes,  much  more.     He  is  so  loving." 

"  No  ;  he  is  not  loving." 

1 '  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?' ' 

' '  I  mean — I  mean — that  I  am  fevered,  wild,  fierce, 
ungentle  :  and  it  is  only  one  who  is  very  loving — very 
— do  you  hear? — and  very,  very  deep, — who  would 
see  me  as  I  am,  love  me  all  the  same,  and  make  me 
happy.  Oh,  happy  !  To  be  happy !  Shall  I  ever 
know  it  ?  And  my  heart  not  only  hungers  for  it,  but 
I  want  to  give  it.  I  know  that  I  could  give  it !  But 
to  be  given  it  must  be  understood." 

1 6* 


1 86  RAKING  STRAWS 

"  Why,"  I  asked,  speaking  lightly  through  a  certain 
uneasiness  her  words  awoke  in  my  breast,  ' '  what  is  this 
peculiarity  of  yours  that  a  lover  or  a  husband  must 
fathom  to  gain  delight  ?' ' 

"  My  asperity,  my  jealousy,  my  exactingness, — I  give 
so  much, — too  much  !  Olga,  I  adore  him  !  Look  at 
my  arm!"  She  pulled  up  her  sleeve.  "It's  thin 
with  fretting  and  pondering.  Bah  !  What  a  tragedy 
queen  you  must  be  thinking  me  !" 

"Why  don't  you  tell  him  all  your  fears, — speak 
out?" 

' '  Every  time  I  do  we  quarrel.  This  is  what  frightens 
me.  He  hates  the  truth.  He  wants  everything  to  be 
smooth  and  calm.  He  cannot  understand  any  other 
sort  of  affection,  and  I  am  afraid." 

"I  don't  wonder  you  are  afraid  of  his  mother,"  I 
said,  making  up  a  grimace. 

"  If  she  is  in  the  least  kind,  there  will  be  no  trouble." 

"And  if  she  isn't?" 

"  If  she  isn't,  and  Templeton  lets  me  tell  him  the 
truth  about  her,  I  shall  survive,  and  do  her  no  harm. 
My  only  fear  is  that,  with  his  peculiar  nature,  he  would 
repel  my  confidences." 

' '  Do  you  know  that  you  used  to  seem  very  quiet  at 
school?  Your  soft  manner  deceives." 

"  I  am  not ;  I  must  have  expression  or  die." 

' '  Why  not  ?    Who  hinders  you  ?' ' 

' '  Ah,  but  with  me  it  is  a  torrent  !  When  it  comes 
it  alarms  people.  My  family  never  could  understand. 
If  I  had  had  a  talent  for  writing,  I  think  it  would  have 
been  a  safety-valve  ;  it  would  have  eased  my  heart.  I 
had  the  dramatic  element  strongly  latent ;  but  they 
opposed  that,  naturally,  no  doubt,  it  was  against  all 
their  traditions.  So  I  hurried,  in  pique  and  anger,  into 


.RAKING  STRAWS  187 

that  miserable  marriage,  which  meant  for  me  only  degra- 
dation. Oh,  what  I  have  suffered  !  But  I  bore  that 
bravely  enough." 

' '  Yes,  dearest,  you  were  always  eloquent.  Do  you 
remember  your  appeal  at  school  for  little  Mary  Janvier, 
and  how  you  gained  her  pardon  ?' ' 

She  had  risen  from  the  floor,  and  was  facing  me, 
wreathing  her  two  arms  behind  her  head.  ' '  That  was 
one  of  those  moments  when  I  had  to  speak.  Injustice 
makes  me  insane." 

"  Oh,  you  are  sane  enough?" 

' '  Sane  like  the  engine  when  its  steam  is  not  stifled. 
Have  you  ever  watched  the  machine  getting  ready  for  a 
start  ?  how  it  snorts  and  trembles,  how  it  cries  in  tra- 
vail and  pain?  Then,  when  it  moves  off  shivering, 
slowly,  slowly,  the  relief,  the  tension  relaxed,  the  power 
let  loose,  the  sigh  ;  and  off  it  goes,  majestic,  through 
the  pleasant,  sunny  fields,  with  that  beautiful  cloud  of 
vapor  behind  it,  marking  its  hidden  track.  Oh,  that 
white  cloud  of  its  pathway,  what  dreams  it  gives  to 
one  !  But  imagine  it,  instead,  compressed  and  heated 
to  bursting, — no  rosy  vapor  then,  no  fair  journeyings, 
but  blackened  ashes,  shivered  iron,  ruin,  death  !" 

Her  eyes  shot  forth  flame  as  she  spoke.  Her  slender 
body  swayed,  electrified,  and  I,  borne  on  her  words, 
could  only  clasp  my  hands  and  ejaculate,  ' '  Monsieur 
Pallain  was  right ;  you  are  a  second  Rachel !' ' 

"  Poor  Monsieur  Pallain  !"  she  said,  changing  her 
tone  in  a  moment  to  the  colloquial,  and  helping  herself 
to  a  macaroon,  which  she  munched  with  gusto.  "  Do 
you  remember  his  purple  handkerchief?  What  a  beau- 
tiful man  he  was,  with  his  white  teeth,  his  pink  cheeks, 
his  splendid  curls,  and  those  ridiculous  eyelashes  an 
inch  long  !" 


1 88  RAKING  STRAWS 

1 '  A  clever  head,  too. ' ' 

' '  Yes,  but  his  appearance  condemned  him.  He  was 
absurdly  good-looking. ' ' 

' '  And  Templeton ?' '  I  asked,  smiling.  "Is  he  ab- 
surdly good-looking  ?' ' 

"  He  seems  god-like  to  me." 

"What  do  you  mean,  then,  by  saying  he  is  not 
loving?"  I  was  devoured  with  curiosity  about  these 
two. 

"  I  can't  explain.  Don't  ask  it.  He  is  in  love  with 
me,  of  course, — in  his  own  fashion,  without  perception. 
Oh,  I  am  sane  with  it  all ;  you  are  right.  But,  sink  or 
swim,  the  die  is  cast.  I  am  his  for  ever." 

III. 

IT  was  about  two  weeks  later  that  I  sat  in  my  boudoir 
chatting  with  two  friends,  when  Mrs.  Vane  was  ad- 
mitted. She  came  in  with  that  somewhat  supercilious 
stare  which  characterizes  her,  taking  an  inventory  of 
the  room,  its  furniture  and  decorations,  its  occupants, 
and,  lastly,  of  myself  and  my  personal  adornments. 
She  knew  my  visitors  :  they  were  Mr.  Ackley  and  Mr. 
Atherton.  The  former  commended  himself  to  her  snob- 
bishness. The  latter  was  a  man  too  unqualifiedly  de- 
sirable to  demand  explanation,  upon  the  same  principle, 
possibly,  that  une  jeune  femme  d  la  mode,  as  Mme.  de 
Girardin  informs  us,  notwithstanding  all  her  caprices, 
all  the  chagrins  she  may  inflict  upon  us,  is  never  un 
paquet. 

Mr.  Ackley  is  a  bachelor  of  uncertain  age,  clever, 
well-read,  polished.  When  his  temper  is  roused  he  has 
a  natural  frankness  which  his  enemies  call  brutality. 
This  naturalness,  which  is  but  the  outgrowth  of  a  rugged 


RAKING  STRAWS  189 

soul,  is  to  my  mind,  on  the  whole,  his  chief  attraction. 
It  has  lessons  to  teach  which  are  not  easily  forgotten. 
He  likes  young  men  and  young  women,  and  his  advice 
to  them  is  tinctured  by  a  caustic  wisdom  tinged  with  a 
beneficent  philosophy.  Himself  an  example  of  high 
honor,  his  precepts  have  no  alloy  of  baseness.  His 
good-natured  satire  is  never  ignoble.  He  is  always  a 
welcome  guest  in  fastidious  drawing-rooms. 

My  other  guest  was  a  widower  of  forty-eight,  a  man 
of  independent  fortune,  and  of  leisure,  who  has  for 
many  years  filled  what  in  his  own  mind,  at  least,  is  the 
envied  rdle  of  a  man  of  fashion.  He  has  two  daugh- 
ters whom  he  has  piloted  through  the  intricacies  of 
the  social  arena  with  considerable  tact  and  skill.  He 
has  made  them,  though  not  comely,  belles.  Not  bril- 
liant, he  has  taught  them  that  esprit  de  conduite, 
which  is  a  better  guarantee  to  social  success  than  the 
most  acute  intellect  and  the  most  regular  features. 
He  saw  to  it  that  they  were  always  well  chaperoned, 
well  dressed,  well  turned  out,  and  that  their  com- 
panions, of  both  sexes,  were  desirable  not  only  in 
poise,  not  only  in  morals,  but  in  the  more  delicate 
shadings  of  that  social  prestige  which  he  deemed  of 
paramount  importance.  This  entirely  feminine  con- 
cern— of  small  moment  to  the  average  man — was  partly 
the  result  of  having  been  forced  into  a  mother's 
watchfulness, — and  in  this  aspect,  pathetic, — partly 
born  of  a  violent  pride,  whose  only  expression  under 
Republican  institutions  was  the  fostering  of  an  ex- 
alted exclusiveness.  Of  New  England  parentage,  Mr. 
Atherton  was  imbued  with  that  large  share  of  Phil- 
istine conservatism  which  had,  in  his  worldly  environ- 
ment, assumed  the  form  of  a  supercilious  disgust  for 
everything  .  .  .  outside.  This  disgust  was  reflected 


1 90  RAKING  STRAWS 

upon  features  which  were  in  themselves  peculiar.  Mr. 
Atherton's  enemies  often  said  that  he  resembled  an 
angry  blonde  lap  dog.  It  is  certain  that  at  moments  he 
had  the  petulance  of  a  luxurious  pet.  Yet,  although 
physical  beauty  was  denied  him,  although  his  face  was 
irregular,  and  his  figure  angular  and  nervous,  his  per- 
son was  not  devoid  of  a  certain  distinction.  Self- 
conscious,  he  was  too  intelligent  to  be  an  egoist, 
and  if  his  address  lacked  ease  it  was  never  uncivil. 
Scrupulously  formal,  he  did  not  appreciate  that  a  prince 
of  the  drawing-room  can  enter  the  presence  of  kings 
upon  four  paws  and  be  instantly  imitated.  With  all 
this,  Mr.  Atherton  was  not  a  fool.  He  was  a  man  of 
more  than  average  intellect.  And  under  all,  far  down 
in  the  recesses  of  his  being,  there  beat  a  heart  full  of 
an  intense  melancholy.  This  man  had  a  craving  for 
affection.  It  was  his  heart  more  than  his  intellect  which 
spoke  now  and  then,  and  shivered  the  frail  fabric  of  his 
poor  ambitions  with  a  shock  of  self-contempt  and  a 
moment's  derision.  He  was  not  devoid  of  a  pale 
humor. 

His  conscience,  which  he  had  never  lost,  smote  him 
for  his  idleness.  His  sensitiveness,  which  had  crystal- 
lized into  false  pride,  made  of  him  an  extremely  un- 
happy man.  He  looked  about  him  on  a  desert  world, 
as  Lermontof's  demon  upon  the  fleeting  heights  of 
Caucasus,  telling  himself  that  he  had  lived  in  vain,  that 
his  life  was  arid  and  futile.  He  was  certainly  uneasy 
and  unsatisfied.  His  daughters  felt  for  him  a  mixture 
of  respect  and  fear,  but  little  affection.  They  dreaded 
his  displeasure,  which  was  generally  directed  against 
some  small  social  dereliction.  He  was  too  reserved  to 
probe  their  minds  and  souls.  Yet  their  lack  of  confi- 
dence secretly  wounded  him.  He  thought  them  un- 


RAKING  STRAWS  191 

grateful  for  the  many  useful  things  that  he  had  taught 
them.  Had  he  not  taught  them  to  distinguish  between 
a  high-bred  slight  taken  or  given,  or  the  rudeness  of 
ignorance  and  crude  Bohemianism  ?  Had  he  not 
taught  them  the  gift  of  silence,  telling  them  that  ele- 
gant women  never  chatter  ?  How  to  snub  their  country 
cousins  under  a  well-bred  affability?  How  to  flatter 
their  important  relatives  without  a  suspicion  of  toady- 
ism ?  Yet  they  remained  cold  ! 

He  pitied  his  own  lonesomeness  in  those  silent  cham- 
bers that  each  of  us  carries  within  himself,  but  which 
none  reveals. 

It  was  with  these  interesting  men  that  Mrs.  Vane 
found  me.  They  did  not  remain  very  long.  It  was 
evident  that  the  older  woman  had  come  for  a  t£te-(i-tete. 
She  'made  it  evident.  The  moment  we  were  alone 
together,  she  broached  the  subject  which  was  upper- 
most in  both  our  minds.  She  drew  her  high-eared 
chair  close  to  my  reclining  one,  and  immediately  gave 
vent  to  an  exclamation  of  woe.  "Oh,  Mrs.  Leigh, 
will  you  tell  me  what  is  to  become  of  me  !' '  I  opened 
my  eyes  and  feigned  astonishment,  murmuring  that  I 
did  not  seize  the  situation.  ' '  You  seize  it  perfectly ; 
you  know  what  I  mean.  You  know  of  Templeton's 
infatuation  for  that — that — woman." 

"  If  you  mean  Mrs.  Avery,"  said  I,  "  I  do  not  accept 
that  phrase  applied  to  a  personal  friend  of  mine. ' ' 

"  Why,  what  do  you  know  of  her?" 

' '  I  have  known  her  all  my  life, ' '  I  answered,  im- 
patiently, ' '  and  I  see  no  reason  why  a  person  who  has 
been  unfortunate  should  be  branded  as  evil-minded." 

"Well!" 

"Yes;  there  is  the  whole  matter, — she  was  unfor- 
tunate." 


192  RAKING  STRAWS 

' '  I  heard  stories. ' ' 

"  And  believed  them,  which  is  more  to  the  purpose." 

' '  I  detest  women  who  give  cause  for  scandal. ' ' 

"There  has  been  no  scandal."  I  was  surprised  at 
my  own  stanch  ness. 

"No ?  I  will  take  your  word  for  it ;  this  is  a  relief." 
There  was,  however,  no  relief  in  her  tone,  but  rather 
a  note  of  disappointment.  Yes,  unmistakably,  Mrs. 
Vane  wanted  a  scandal ;  she  had  called  for  it.  Women 
dislike  to  be  so  cheated. 

"No,"  I  went  on,  "I  am  romantic.  I  believe  in 
love.  If  they  care  for  one  another,  then,  that  is  every- 
thing. ' '  I  became  very  bold,  chafing  under  the  ray  of 
her  empty  eye.  "And  how  do  you  know  your  son 
will  give  her  happiness, — that  which  she  has  missed 
before  ?  You  have  spoiled  him,  Mrs.  Vane.  I  fear  he 
is  selfish." 

She  dropped  her  hands  and  could  only  again  exclaim, 
"Well!" 

"Yes,  yes,"  I  continued,  quickly,  "I  know  it  is 
always  the  man's  welfare  that  is  considered  in  these 
matters  ;  but  it  takes  two  to  enter  such  a  partnership, 
and  I  want  my  poor  little  friend  to  find  joy.  Ah,  Mrs. 
Vane,  be  kind  to  her  !" 

' '  Why,  the  way  you  talk,  one  would  think  I  was  an 
ogress  !"  I  looked  at  her  delicate  hand — she  had 
drawn  off  a  glove — laden  with  its  beautiful  rings,  at 
her  thin,  white  throat,  at  the  line  of  her  faint  lips,  at 
the  fading  oval  of  her  yellow  cheek,  at  the  high,  aristo- 
cratic brow,  over  which  her  lace  veil  was  drawn  up, 
dividing  it  like  a  knife  with  its  sharp  black  line.  I 
gazed  upon  the  vertical  wrinkle  which  lay  under  the 
rippling  softness  of  her  gracefully-brushed  gray  hair, 
and  at  her  large  vacant  blue  eyes  ;  and  I  asked  myself 


RAKING  STRAWS  193 

if,  indeed,  she  might  not  be  an  ogress,  one  of  those 
terrible  ones  which  dispatch  their  victims  silently,  crunch- 
ing their  bones  swiftly  and  noiselessly,  so  that  they  shall 
make  no  cry  or  moaning.  Yet  she  was  only  a  good- 
looking,  middle-aged  lady,  gentle  of  birth,  soft  of 
speech,  and  with  a  purr  in  her  well-bred  tones.  ' '  To 
me,"  she  went  on,  "it  is  all  quite  dreadful.  What, 
will  you  tell  me,  is  to  become  of  me  whenw  Templeton 
is  married  ?' ' 

"You  must  have  expected  it." 

"Not  now ;  and  then,  who  could  have  imagined  he 
would  make  such  a  choice?  Were  there  not  enough 
lovely  young  girls,  that  he  had  to  give  himself  to  a 
widow  ?' ' 

So  that  was  the  trouble, —  the  fresh,  unsullied 
purity  of  Templeton  Vane  was  not  to  be  breathed 
upon  !  I  laughed  in  my  sleeve.  ' '  Widows  are  pro- 
verbially dangerous,"  I  said. 

' '  I  never  was, ' '  said  Mrs.  Vane. 

I  believed  her. 

"  I  have  always  had  a  horror  of  flirtatious  widows," 
she  continued  ;  ' '  but,  of  course,  what  can  you  know 
of  such  sentiments  ?  You  are  not  a  mother,  you  are  a 
sort  of  goddess,  dear  Mrs.  Leigh,  a  Diana.  Yes, 
really,  you  look  like — like  the  statues.  You  sail  se- 
renely. What  can  you  know  of  our  poor  human  con- 
flicts and  weaknesses?" 

I  murmured  faintly  that  even  the  superb  daughter  of 
Latona,  whom  I  could  not  aspire  to  resemble,  had  one 
day  awakened  to  the  fact  that  she  too  had  a  woman's 
breast.  Then,  after  a  pause — not  in  my  character  of 
an  immortal,  but  moved  by  a  very  practical  human 
curiosity — "  Have  you  seen  her?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  I  have  seen  her,"  she  sighed.  "I  suppose  I 
in  17 


194  RAKING  STRAWS 

was  angry — prejudiced.  I  felt  a  sense  of  crime  in  her 
very  clothes  !' ' 

"Oh!" 

"I  don't  want  to  be  disagreeable," — this  was  evi- 
dent,— "I  admit  I  am  a  foolish  mother.  This  has 
nearly  killed  me."  She  drew  out  a  cambric  handker- 
chief and  began  to  cry  softly.  ' '  You  are  right ;  he  is 
selfish.  You  are  not  a  mother.  You  don't  understand 
these  things." 

I  had  my  own  doubts  as  to  the  future  of  the  lovers. 
I  had  almost  wished  they  might  be  persuaded  to  part  ; 
but  this  visit  was  fast  making  me  their  ally  and  cham- 
pion. 

1 '  She  angled  for  and  caught  him  !  There  can  be  no 
doubt  of  that." 

I  flushed.  ' '  In  this  you  are  unjust ;  for  only  yes- 
terday she  was  telling  me  of  her  own  grave  misgivings. ' ' 

"Misgivings  !" 

"Yes  ;  he  has  pursued  her,  and  she  has  yielded,  but 
not  at  once." 

"Oh!"  said  Mrs.  Vane,  "of  course,  young  men 
will  be  young  men.  They  will  pursue  the  woman  who 
holds  the  dragte  haute.  She  is  clever,  I  don't  dispute 
the  fact, — cold,  clever,  and  calculating." 

"Now,  do  you  know,"  said  I,  "  I  should  imagine 
her  passionate  and  generous." 

"She  has  thrown  dust  into  your  eyes." 

"Would  you  have  him  marry  an  idiot?" 

"  Alva  Greene  is  not  an  idiot ;  and  you  know,  Mrs. 
Leigh,  I  can  disinherit  him  if  I  like.  It  is  in  his  father's 
will."  She  drew  from  her  muff  a  document  tied  with 
a  red  string,  and  began  unfolding  it.  She  had  brought 
her  husband' s  will !  ' '  Let  me  read  you  the  fifth  clause. ' ' 
Then  she  read  there,  in  fact,  that  if  her  son  should  make 


RAKING  STRAWS  195 

a  marriage  distasteful  to  her,  she  could  leave  the  entire 
property  of  his  father  in  other  channels. 

"Ah,  but,"  I  said,  "you  wouldn't  do  this.  You 
wouldn't  be  so  cruel !" 

"  I  am  distraught.  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do. 
I  shall  consult  my  lawyer." 

I  told  myself,  when  she  finally  rose  to  depart,  that  a 
man's  hate  is  feeble  to  a  woman's,  if  man's  love,  while 
it  lasts,  burns  with  a  steadier  flame.  Which  would 
triumph,  her  love  or  her  hatred  ?  For,  after  all,  if  she 
was  a  mother  she  would  not  persecute  her  child. 

IV. 

I  WAS  ill  prepared  by  the  events  of  the  foregoing 
chapter  for  the  exquisite  peace,  content,  not  to  say 
hidden  rapture,  that  I  found  upon  the  burning  faces  of 
my  lovers  when  I  met  them  again,  three  months  later, 
as  man  and  wife.  They  had  then  been  married  a  few 
weeks  only.  I  talked  with  them  together ;  I  talked 
with  them  singly  and  in  pairs  ;  and  each  could  only 
dwell  on  the  perfections  of  the  other.  But  in  such 
matters  what  people  say  to  us  is  of  small  value  ;  what 
radiates  from  their  presence  is  paramount.  They  both 
looked  superbly.  They  seemed  filled  to  the  lips  with 
the  upbubbling  wine  of  life. 

I  found  them  occupying  a  handsome  suite  of  rooms 
in  a  hotel,  whence  they  were  shortly  to  sail  for  Europe. 
After  which  Templeton  vaguely  spoke  of  returning  to 
America  and  entering  the  field  of  politics  or  of  affairs. 

"  I  am  ambitious  for  him,"  said  Madeline,  smiling  up 
at  him.  ' '  I  want  him  to  stand  on  his  own  merits — to 
snap  his  fingers  at  the  world."  She  spoke  a  little  trem- 
ulously. 


196  RAKING  STRAWS 

He  glanced  at  me  and  then  at  his  wife,  indulgently. 
' '  She  imagines  her  pet  crow  to  be  an  eagle  !' '  he  said, 
not  without  fatuity. 

"You  don't  know,  he  has  been  an  angel  to  me  !" 
she  whispered  in  my  ear.  "His  mother  ..." 

"Ah,  yes,  is  she  still  hostile?" 

' '  There  is  an  armed  truce, ' '  said  Madeline,  laughing, 
"which  we  hope  to  change  into  a  permanent  peace 
when  we  visit  her  on  the  other  side.  Don't  you  think 
she  will  forgive  us  when  she  sees  us  so  happy — lay 
down  her  weapons  of  defence  and  of  offence?  We 
shall  go  to  her  directly." 

' '  There  is  nothing  to  forgive. ' ' 

' '  No,  you  are  right.  I  am  not  meek  by  nature ;  I 
am  proud.  But  one  must  be  reasonable.  She  had 
other  hopes  ;  I  blighted  them.  I  must  take  time  to 
win  her  to  me — to  us."  Then  she  seized  my  hand  and 
squeezed  it,  until  the  tears  sprang  from  my  eyes. 

"  Oh,  God,  I  am  so  happy  !  You  don't  know — it  is 
heaven  !  He  is  everything  to  me,"  she  repeated.  "  I 
have  often  cursed  my  intellect,  as  it  pleased  God  to 
give  me  one.  I  have  thought  that  women  who  had 
only  senses  and  hearts  were  the  happiest ;  for  they  are 
slavishly  devoted,  and  in  this  find  satisfaction.  With 
me  there  was  so  much  to  be  satisfied.  But  there  seems 
sympathy  between  us,  yes,  really."  She  gave  out  a 
faint  smile.  ' '  We  have  talked  and  talked  ;  there  was  so 
much  to  tell  each  other,  such  a  flood  of  words  after  all 
these  years  that  we  were  nothing  to  one  another. 
There  is  hardly  time  left  for  loving,  with  all  that  we 
have  to  say."  She  spoke  in  a  whisper  to  me,  like  one 
alarmed,  eager  to  wrest  from  destiny  a  fugitive  and 
fearful  joy.  ' '  He  has  been  so  tender,  so  manly,  and 
then,  he  never  makes  me  jealous." 


RAKING  STRAWS  197 

I  listened  to  all  that  she  said,  as  we  do  to  the  prattle 
of  invalids  or  children.  These  vagaries  of  passion  are 
as  legitimate  as  law. 

He  accompanied  me  to  the  door.  It  was  much  the 
same  story,  if  there  was  less  poetry  in  his  effusive- 
ness. "  Don't  you  find  Madeline  improved,  looking 
handsome — eh?  She  is  the  sweetest  creature  !  Don't 
you  think  my  mother  must  love  her?" 

"I  don't  know!" 

' '  How  could  any  one  help  it  ? — if — if  she  shows 
tact." 

"Who,  your  mother?" 

"No,  Madeline.  She  tells  me  she  is  quick-tempered. 
I  see  no  evidences  of  it ;  she  is  a  seraph.  But  my 
mother  is  peculiar.  It  will  need  patience.  As  to  pecu- 
niary matters,  she  is  keeping  a  sphinx-like  silence  which 
is  most  exasperating.  My  allowance  continues,  and 
that  is  all  I  know  about  it.  I  shall  do  as  Madeline  sug- 
gests— come  home  in  a  year  and  make  myself  inde- 
pendent. This  dependence  on  woman's  whims  is  a 
cursed  nuisance.  You  know  she  wouldn't  come  to  our 
wedding.  She  left  just  before." 

I  commended  his  decision. 

"  If  Madeline  were  mediocre,  mother  would  have 
liked  her.  It  is  her  superiority  that  provokes  her. 
Everybody  gets  some  praise.  Blame  only  comes  to 
people  who  are  envied.  Why,  look  at  it  in  art !  Who 
ever  parodies  mediocrity?  You  women  are  down  on 
another  when  she  is  superior  in  charm.  Why,  she 
could  have  married  anybody,  and  she  took  me  !"  He 
was  full  of  that  passionate  partisanship  which  infuses 
and  increases  affection.  A  champion  is  an  idolater. 
It  was  quite  delightful.  Love,  flying  past,  had  tipped 
his  arrow  and  left  it  here.  I  was  surprised,  because  I 


198  RAKING  STRAWS 

had  looked  upon  Vane  as  a  somewhat  self-indulgent 
young  gentleman,  and  had  feared  this  might  be  but  the 
whiff  of  a  new  caprice, — a  desire,  common  to  man,  for 
sweetmeats  ;  sweetmeats  placed  just  out  of  reach,  and 
behind  an  altar  that  must  be  jumped  over  to  get  to 
them. 

V. 

IT  was  eighteen  months  later  that  I  met  them  again, 
— this  time  at  a  European  watering-place.  I  had  been 
persuaded  into  a  wild  mountain  trip  by  a  party  of  ad- 
venturous spirits,  had  worn  narrow  cloth  gowns,  tanned 
my  nose  (my  best  feature),  neglected  the  roseate  tips 
of  my  finger-nails,  sprained  an  ankle  caracoling  over 
glaciers  in  high  heels  ;  and  then  had  had  them  ampu- 
tated— the  heels,  I  mean, — and  hobbled  about  with 
the  tread  of  a  dragoon  or  a  British  old  maid  ;  and  now 
I  was  longing  to  find  my  boxes  again,  to  array  myself 
in  soft  garments,  to  put  a  diamond  in  my  hair  and  a 
rose  in  my  bodice.  I  began  to  realize  the  usefulness  of 
conforming  heart  and  intelligence  to  artificial  institu- 
tions. We  all  have  these  swinging  reactions.  And 
then  my  lord  and  master  was  to  meet  me  in  this  spot. 
A  letter  from  Madeline  Vane  had  informed  me  that  she 
had  a  villa  there,  for  a  month,  and  they  had  begged  me 
earnestly  to  pass  it  with  them.  I  compromised  with 
the  promise  of  a  three  days'  visit. 

When  our  train  pulled  up  it  was  already  night.  A 
man-servant  spoke  to  my  courier  and  told  him  Mrs. 
Vane  was  awaiting  me  in  her  carriage.  I  did,  in  fact, 
find  her  reclining  in  a  pretty  victoria,  under  the  first 
rays  of  a  benignant  moon.  It  lighted  up  a  captivating 
person  in  the  form  of  my  hostess.  She  sat  erect, 
charmingly  dressed,  in  a  majestic  attitude  I  had  not 


RAKING  STRAWS  199 

recognized  in  her  before.  Her  greeting  was  affectionate, 
but  reserved  and  composed.  She  impressed  me  like  a 
person  who  was  learning  to  stand  on  her  feet.  She 
had  lost  the  liquidity  which  had  once  been  a  part  of  her 
loveliness.  There  was  less  impulse,  possibly  a  shade  of 
hardness.  Yet,  when  I  took  my  seat  beside  her,  some- 
thing about  her  was  suggestive  of  inward  agitation. 
The  finest  artificiality  may  convey  an  impression  of  un- 
expressed strength,  of  something  underneath — dormant, 
if  you  will,  but  alive.  I  know  not  why,  in  that  short 
drive  from  the  station,  I  was  imbued  with  the  idea  that 
Madeline  Vane  was  acting  a  part.  Women's  intuitions 
need  no  further  basis  of  belief.  They  are  ;  that  is  suffi- 
cient. She  told  me  of  the  gayety  of  the  place,  of  its 
cosmoramic  revels,  of  the  glitter  and  the  bluster  of  the 
masquerade.  There  were  foreign  princes  of  wealth  and 
of  lineage,  flaunting  their  feathers  for  applause  and 
effect.  There  were  impoverished  noblemen  in  search 
of  wealth  and  beauty  ;  fair  Western  heiresses,  flirting 
with  titled  adorers,  and  Eastern  business  men,  who  took 
the  baths  for  their  livers,  and  read  the  New  York  Herald 
all  day,  tilting  their  chairs  at  their  banker's,  or  sunning 
themselves  under  the  hotel  arcades.  She  wafted  me 
agreeably  through  a  gallery  of  character  and  situation. 

When  we  reached  the  villa  the  moon  was  splendidly 
lighting  its  Grecian  portico.  It  looked  like  a  dream  of 
Athens.  It  lay  half-hidden  in  its  fecundity  of  blossom. 
There  was  nothing  of  the  middle-class  or  commonplace 
in  the  nest  my  friends  had  chosen.  It  stood  apart — 
in  silence  and  grace.  'Twas  a  fitting  asylum  for  lovers. 
Here,  too,  a  Socrates  might  have  sat  under  quiet  trees 
to  indulge  in  restful  reveries,  nourishing  himself  on  the 
pleasures  of  fine  irony. 

Within,  the  villa  was  equally  attractive.     The  bro- 


200  RAKING  STRAWS 

cade  which  hung  the  pretty  room  into  which  I  was  led 
from  the  antechamber  was  not  too  new.  It  had  the 
delicacy  which  such  things  gain  when  they  are  a  little 
faded.  The  tea-table  was  drawn  close  to  the  wax  lights, 
and  the  roses  of  the  portico  wafted  their  scent  through 
the  windows.  The  hearth  was  filled  with  flowering 
plants.  The  suite  of  salons  was  redolent  of.  perfumes, 
of  soft  and  refined  luxuries. 

I  was  rather  tired  from  my  journey,  yet  not  tired 
enough  to  disturb  that  recipient  frame  of  mind  which, 
possibly,  in  an  active  brain  is  best  engendered  by  a 
slight  fatigue  of  the  nervous  centres.  Two  women  who 
have  a  great  deal  to  say  to  each  other,  who  are  charged, 
as  it  were,  burdened  with  topics,  are  apt  to  interfere 
with  each  other,  if  both  are  equally  aggressive  in  speech. 
I  sank  back  upon  a  lounge  with  a  sense  of  delicious 
languor,  breathed  a  little  sigh,  placed  a  cushion  under 
my  head,  stretched  out  my  feet  and  prepared  to  listen. 
My  luggage  had  not  yet  come  ;  it  could  not  be  here  for 
an  hour  ;  it  was  not  yet  ten  o'clock.  Here  was  a  chance 
for  a  woman-talk.  Mrs.  Vane  told  me  almost  immedi- 
ately that  she  was  quite  alone,  as  her  husband  had  gone 
up  to  Paris  to  see  his  mother.  This  lady,  she  added, 
had  telegraphed  to  him  that  she  needed  his  immediate 
presence.  ' '  Why, ' '  she  said,  ' '  I  know  not.  It  is,  I 
presume,  one  of  her  childish  whims."  I  raised  an  in- 
terrogative eyebrow.  "  Oh,"  she  went  on,  "  I  may  as 
well  tell  you,  dearest,  that  it  has  been  even  worse  than 
I  expected,  yes,  worse.  She  received  me  with  cruel 
coldness,  and  all  my  efforts  at  conciliation  have  proved 
ineffectual.  I  thought  the  only  people  who  could  not 
be  pardoned  were  the  perfect  ones  ;  but  it  seems  that 
even  my  imperfections  do  not  commend  me  to  my 
mother-in-law.' ' 


RAKING  STRAWS  20 1 

"  Tell  me  about  it,"  I  said,  comfortably  settling  my 
hand  under  my  cheek.  La  Rochefoucauld  was  right ; 
other  people's  troubles  have  their  piquancy. 

"There  isn't  much  to  tell.  She  is  edgy  and  inelastic. 
She  lives  in  a  small,  narrow  round,  and  can  see  nothing 
beyond.  She  belongs  to  that  large  class  of  women,  the 
whole  framework  of  whose  virtue  seems  to  consist  in 
unjust  severity  towards  their  own  sex.  To  men  they 
are  always  lenient,  to  women  harsh  and  uncompro- 
mising." I  nodded  my  head.  "I  know  them,"  I 
said. 

' '  What  will  you  have  ?  She  is  still  regretting  Alva 
Greene's  ducats.  She  is  a  lady,  that  I  must  admit. 
Sometimes  she  makes  me  feel  that  I  am  not  one.  I 
must  have  made  some  terrible  mistake.  Perhaps  I 
tried  too  hard  to  please  her.  You  see  I — I — love  him 
so  much  !" 

Ah,  the  touch  of  nature  !     I  had  her  hand. 

1 '  It  was  such  a  foolish  thing  I  can  hardly  speak  of  it, 
— the  matter  of  a  pearl  pin, — and  this  with  my  tumult 
of  spirit !  Ah,  she  has  none  of  that  to  repress  !' '  The 
cry  was  genuine.  ' '  I  went  out  and  bought  it  for  her  ; 
a  poor  little  thing  ;  but  she  suffers  from  cold,  she  wraps 
herself  up.  I  thought  it  would  have  been  useful  to 
hold  her  shawl.  I  meant  well."  She  paused  ;  I  pressed 
her  fingers  in  eager  sympathy,  ' '  I  went  there  ;  it  was 
the  third  time  I  saw  her.  I  had  it  in  my  breast.  I  was 
actually  trembling.  She  had  been  so  icy,  but  not  in- 
solent, not  actually  insolent,  and  then " 

"Then?" 

' '  Well,  she  just  waived  it  aside.  '  Keep  it  for  your- 
self,' she  said  to  me.  '  I  have  no  use  for  the  thing.' 
And  then— then  she  added,  '  You  had  better  not  waste 
your  husband's  money  on  such  follies.'  " 


202  RAKING  STRAWS 

"  I  thought  you  said  she  was  a  lady?" 

' '  She  is,  in  a  way.  When  she  says  things  like  that 
it  is  in  a  low  voice,  and  she  is  never  vulgar.  No,  it  is  I 
who  became  vulgar." 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"  Oh,  nothing  then,  nothing  until  night,  when  Tem- 
pleton  came  home.  He  had  been  out  hunting.  Then 
I  just  lay  in  wait  for  him " 

"And?" 

"Ah  !"  she  said,  and  her  eyes  gleamed  with  a  sud- 
den flame,  ' '  this  is  the  awful  part  of  it,  I  forgot  myself. 
I  gave  him  no  chance — no  chance — before  he  could 
speak, — he  adores  his  mother — I  criminated  myself, 
made  myself  the  most  unforgivable  offender." 

' '  I  don' t  understand. ' '  She  spoke  so  quickly,  with 
eager  breath  and  dramatic  intensity,  that  I  rose  from 
my  reclining  position.  My  heart  was  beating. 

"  Yes,  yes,  that  is  the  misery.  It  has  made  the  most 
dreadful  trouble." 

"Why,  what?" 

' '  I  was  in  fury.  I  pounced  on  him.  I  denounced 
her." 

"  But  what  did  you  say?" 

"He  spoke  of  her  invalidism.  He  was  in  good 
humor.  He  had  had  fine  sport.  He  didn't  get  angry 
at  her  a  bit,  not  a  bit ;  but  rather  found  fault  with  me 
for  being  sensitive.  Then  it  was  I  cried  out  that  dread- 
ful thing.  I  said,  '  No  wonder  she  is  ill.  She  lives  on 
stimulants.  There  was  but  one  excuse  for  her.  She 
had  taken  too  much  wine.' ' 

"Ah!" 

' '  You  see  you  yourself  are  shocked. ' ' 

"Not  in  the  least,  my  dear;  I  should  have  beaten 
her!" 


RAKING  STRAWS  203 

"Oh,  yes,  you  are.  It  was  terrible,  for  he  made  a 
rush  for  me,  and  he  took  me  by  the  shoulder.  Of 
course,  he  was  not  rough  at  first,  until  I  had  talked  on 
and  on  and  infuriated  him  ;  and  then  he  became  as  one 
blind,  and  he  shook  me  and  threw  me  from  him,  and 
gave  me  the  lie,  and  I  hurt  my  foot  against  a  chair ; 
and  when  I  cried  he  didn't  seem  to  care, — he  wanted  to 
hurt  me." 

"Was  it  a  lie?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes,  of  course !  I  knew  not  what  I 
said." 

' '  But  if  he  loves  you ?' ' 

' '  Yes  ;  he  loves  me. ' ' 

"Why,  then,  it  is  all  forgiven  1" 

"  No,"  she  said  ;  "it  is  not  forgiven.' 

"By  him?" 

"No;  by  me." 

"You  think  he  should  always  take  your  part?" 

"No;  it  is  not  that." 

"It  was  his  touching  you  roughly?" 

' '  No,  no  ;  I  have  pardoned  that.  I  know  what  pas- 
sionate pity  means.  He  pities  his  mother  because  she 
is  alone  and  old  and  ill, — or  thinks  that  she  is.  But 
he  should  have  let  the  stream  have  vent.  There  are 
characters  like  that ;  they  must  speak  or  die.  Then 
comes  exhaustion,  and  all  is  over.  After  it  I  was  re- 
lieved. I  could  have  gone  back  to  her,  the  poor  lady, 
on  my  hands  and  knees,  slaved  for  her,  cared  for  her, 
served  her  ;  but  he  wouldn'  t  let  me.  Oh  !  he  is  hard, 
hard.  He  will  scarcely  let  me  approach  her  now." 

"It  isn't  hardness,"  I  said,  decidedly  j  "it  is  a  lack 
of  intelligence." 

"Intelligence?" 

"  Exactly.     That  I  could  have  told  you. 


204  RAKING  STRAWS 

She  shook  her  head.  ' '  I  always  felt  that  he  lacked 
perception,  but  this  is  so  frequent  in  men.  You  think 
it  is  this,  and  not  coldness  of  heart  ?' ' 

"Yes." 

"  He  says  he  hates  scenes,  and  that  I  make  them." 

"Do  you  often?" 

"Why,  no  ;  I  am  placid  as  a  lake  every  day.  But 
there  has  been  one  other, — one  since  we  were  married, 
— one  big  one, — oh,  dreadful  !" 

"Tell  it  to  me  ;  it  will  comfort  you." 

"  There  isn't  much  comfort  in  it,  but  I  will  tell  you 
about  it.  This  time  it  was  jealousy." 

"  Oh,  nonsense  !     You  must  have  imagined  it." 

"No,  listen:  I  have  an  enormous  hold  on  him. 
There  was  no  present  jealousy  ;  this  was  about  the 
past." 

"Oh,  my  dear!  if  you  propose  to  make  yourself 
miserable  about  men's  past,  you  had  better  go  into  a 
convent  and  become  a  religieuse  at  once. ' ' 

"Why,  wouldn't  you  worry  about  a  man's  past?" 
I  squirmed  ;  the  subject  was  not  pleasant.  "  I  will  tell 
you.  And  first,  you  know,  jealousy  is  mere  jealousy 
while  it  feeds  on  doubts,  because  it  is  doubt.  When  it 
becomes  certainty  it  becomes  anger.  That  is  why  the 
past  has  such  a  power, — we  know  its  pictures  to  be 
real." 

"Not  always." 

1 '  This  was  real,  at  any  rate — horrid  !' 

' '  I  feel  sure  you  exaggerate. ' ' 

"I  couldn't — not  what  I  suffered — suffer  still  when 
I  think  of  it." 

"  Don't  tell  me  then." 

"Yes,  I  will.     You  don't  know,  it  may  save  me." 

"Save  you?" 


RAKING  STRAWS  205 

"  Yes  ;  from  more  misery.     It  will  be  a  safety-valve." 

"Go  on  then." 

' '  I  was  fussing  over  some  papers  of  his  in  an  old 
portfolio.  It  was  there  I  found  those  letters." 

"Dear  me!" 

"Yes,  from  her,  that  awful  woman!  Don't  laugh. 
If  you  knew — you  do  know  ;  you  have  seen  her.  You 
know  her  name.  If  she  had  only  been  pretty,  or 
young,  or  anything  !' ' 

"I  am  not  sure." 

"  No  ?  Well,  perhaps  not ;  but  it  is  knowing  a  per- 
son that  is  the  worst.  We  know  there  has  been  a  past, 
— I  have  had  mine,  God  knows,  and  so  he  reminds  me, 
sometimes.  But  when  it  is  vague  it  is  bearable.  It  is 
knowledge  that  kills.  I  had  seen  her  in  the  world.  \ 
knew  how  she  did  up  her  hair  ;  how  she  held  her  hands, 
walked,  spoke ;  how  she  would  behave  under  certain 
conditions.  I  had  been  close  to  her  over  and  over, — 
talked  to  her.  I  knew  the  shape  of  her  ears.  That  is 
why  one  would  be  more  miserable  if  it  were  a  friend 
than  a  stranger  that  they  had  loved  or  cared  about. 
Imagination  has  its  limits.  When  you  give  it  food  it 
runs  riot.  Mine  did.  How  could  he  ?  If  you  knew  ! 
She  has  a  long  nose  .  .  .  she  is  really  .  .  .  ancient." 

"And  the  letters?" 

"Wild  love-letters  from  her  to  him.     I  read  them." 

"  Was  he  angry  ?" 

"Oh,  not  at  that.  Any  woman  would  have  read 
them.  Why,  there  they  were  disgracefully  evident, 
indecently  get-at-able  !  He  thought  them  destroyed." 

"  How  shocking  !  She  must,  indeed,  be  shameless," 
I  said,  although  unable  to  conceal  a  smile. 

"You  may  say  it." 

"Well,  but  it  is  all  over?" 
18 


206  RAKING  STRAWS 

"Oh,  yes,  seven  years  ago." 

"Ah,  but  then " 

"  She  is  still  alive  !" 

' '  Where  is  the  creature  ?' ' 

"Travelling  !"  this  with  a  tragic  stress.  "  Gone  to 
Lapland,  I  hear,  on  an  expedition." 

"  Let  us  hope  the  sea-lions  will  devour  her  !" 

"  They  couldn't  digest  her.  She's  plain,  my  dear, 
there  is  no  doubt  of  that,  and  ill-shapen.  But  she  has 
a  good  skin, — although  her  nose  is  so  pronounced." 

"Yes." 

"  You  admire  her  skin,  then  ?" 

"  No,  dear,  I  said  '  yes'  about  the  nose." 

' '  All  this  would  not  have  mattered  if  I  had  not  made 
the  most  awful  fuss." 

"  I  suppose  fuss  is  hardly  the  word." 

"Hardly.     I  just  died." 

' '  And  made  a  row  ?' ' 

"  I  ranted  all  night.     I  insulted  him." 

"How  did  he  take  it?" 

"Mildly  at  first,  as  he  always  does,  and  at  last 
furious." 

"  He  did  not  touch  you?" 

"Oh,  no  !  never — never — never  but  that  once  about 
his  mother.  He  is  the  soul  of  gentleness." 

"Don't  you  think,  then,  that  you  do  try  him,  that 
you  are  too  exacting,  that  you  ought  to  control  your- 
self?" 

' '  Ah  !' '  she  said,  pushing  the  cushion  at  my  feet  on 
which  she  sat  closer  to  my  knee,  and  resting  her  chin 
upon  her  palm,  looking  up  into  my  eyes  :  ' '  That  is 
just  what  I  wanted  to  tell  you  ;  that  is  the  sum  of  all 
that  I  am  confiding  to  you.  I  am  controlling  myself. 
I  am  controlling  myself,  and  it  isn't  a  success.  Olga, 


RAKING  STRAWS  207 

you  know  how  I  love,  love,  love  and  worship  him  !  I 
have  made  a  god  of  him.  He  is  not  my  husband,  but 
my  lover,  my  idol.  Oh,  I  was  so  lonely  and  so  forlorn 
when  he  took  pity  on  me  !  Oh,  my  poor  hungry  heart! 
One  must  have  waited — suffered  to  know  what  his  love 
meant  for  me.  He  will  never  know  how  I  have  loved 
him." 

' '  Loved  !  Do  you  speak  in  the  past  tense  ?' '  I  felt 
suddenly  as  if  I  was  commonplace  ;  that  there  was  not 
enough  storm  in  me  to  understand  her  nature. 

She  stirred  uneasily  :  ' '  Why  do  you  imagine  I  love 
him  less?" 

"Who  can  say?" 

1 '  What  makes  you  think  I  should  love  him  less  ?' '  she 
persisted,  with  a  note  of  insistent  anxiety  in  her  tone. 

' '  I  cannot  tell — your  own  word. ' ' 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  suddenly,  springing  to  her  feet. 
' '  You  have  touched  that  terror,  you  have  told  the  truth 
— the  truth  :  I  shall  love  him  less  if  I  control  myself,  if 
I  stifle  it  all,  keep  it  all  in.  Why,  only  last  week  there 
was  a  passing  misunderstanding  ;  all  might  have  been 
explained.  But  I  feared  my  own  impulse,  I  feared  a 
'  scene, '  as  he  calls  it.  I  let  it  pass.  I  held  my  peace. 
But  every  time — every  time  that  I  do,  there  is  some- 
thing seems  to  snap  within  me — to  loosen.  I  feel  that 
I  am  drifting  away  from  him,  to  indifference,  to — to — 
despair.  I  wake  in  the  night,  the  cold  drops  upon  my 
forehead.  I  have  dreamed  that  I  wanted  to  speak  and 
could  not."  Her  words  and  manner  impressed  me 
strongly. 

"Why  don't  you  explain  all  this  to  him,  make  a 
clean  breast  of  your  peculiar  nature,  give  him  its  key  ? 
How  long  is  it  since  you  have  held  your  peace,  avoided 
scenes,  as  you  say,  and  kept  your  own  counsel?" 


208  RAKING  STRAWS 

1 '  Several  months. ' ' 

' '  And  you  are  less  happy  ?' ' 

"I  was  in  heaven  when  I  felt  free  with  him, — when 
the  scene  was  over ;  and  they  were  so  rare,  so  very 
rare.  Don't  imagine  that  we  haven't  lived  in  peace 
together.  It  was  peace  nearly  always.  But  now  that 
I  keep  something  back,  always,  always,  he  doesn't  get 
all  of  me,  as  he  used.  And  the  most  dreadful  thing  is 
he  doesn't  seem  to  see  it,  and  I  am  miserable." 

"And  you  tell  me  he  is  better  pleased,  more  con- 
tent?" 

"Apparently.  Only  the  other  day  he  took  my  hand, 
and  after  admiring  it  (he  likes  my  hands),  he  compli- 
mented me  on  my  increased  tact.  He  said,  '  You  are 
learning  to  understand  me,  to  make  me  the  existence  I 
desire.  I  am  so  grateful,  I  do  so  detest  quarrels  !'  and 
do  you  know,  at  that  moment  when  I  looked  at  him,  I 
never  liked  or  loved  him  less  !" 

"  What  did  you  say  ?" 

She  sank  down  again  upon  the  cushion  at  my  feet, 
with  a  discouraged  gesture,  and  her  voice  fell  to  a 
dispirited  monotone.  ' '  What  was  there  to  say  ?  I 
expressed  gratitude,  and  told  him  I  was  glad  he  was  so 
content. ' ' 

Before  we  parted,  she  made  me  promise  I  would  on 
no  account  speak  to  him.  "  He  would  imagine,"  she 
said,  ' '  that  I  had  complained,  and  oh,  he  is  all  that  I 
have  and  want !' '  When  I  went  to  my  room  my  heart 
felt  oppressed.  I  told  myself  that  here  were  two  beings 
drifting  apart,  tossed  and  perhaps  wrecked  forever 
through  a  nervous  idiosyncrasy  of  the  one,  a  trick  of 
temper  or  of  health,  and  a  wilful  folly  and  blindness  of 
the  other.  I  decided,  notwithstanding  my  promise, 
that  if  I  had  the  opportunity  I  would  say  a  word  to 


RAKING  STRAWS  209 

her  husband,  guardedly  of  course,  and  diplomatically. 
I  also  decided  that  life  was  quite  too  impracticable, 
except  possibly  to  peasant  women  who  have  no  time  for 
introspection, — only  enough  to  carry  their  fagots,  stir 
their  soup-pots,  and  bear  their  little  ones. 


VI. 

LIFE  seemed,  however,  less  impossible  on  the  follow- 
ing morning.  It  was  a  bright,  pleasant  day,  and  my 
hostess  came  down  to  meet  me,  looking  youthful  in  her 
white  costume,  and  with  cheeks  like  ripening  peaches. 
After  breakfast  we  took  a  short  drive  ;  a  band  of  music 
lured  us  to  the  promenade,  where  we  deserted  our 
low  phaeton,  and  wandered  under  the  trees,  to  join 
a  group  of  friends.  Mr.  Atherton  detached  himself 
from  among  them  and  came  forward  with  his  alert, 
angular,  gentlemanly  movement,  to  join  us.  One  of 
his  young  daughters'  eyes  followed  his  retiring  figure 
from  a  neighboring  kiosk  with  an  air  of  evident  relief. 
There  was  a  young  man  with  her,  and  the  measure 
of  cordiality  of  her  smile  seemed  to  change  in  a  per- 
fectly distinct  ratio  with  the  number  of  steps  her  father 
took. 

"  I  wish  Mr.  Atherton  had  a  dissipated  son,"  I  said, 
watching  Miss  Atherton  with  keen  amusement. 

"And  why,  pray?" 

' '  To  make  him  appreciate  his  good  little  girls.  De- 
pend upon  it,  dissipated  sons  have  their  uses  ;  they  are 
a  discipline  to  their  parents.  Parents  are  unreasonable. ' ' 

' '  Yes.     Do  you  remember  the  Nordhoffs  ?' ' 

"Why?" 

"  How  kindly  they  received  the  gardener's  daughter 
their  second  son  married  ?' ' 

o  18* 


210  RAKING  STRAWS 

"  How  was  that,  with  all  their  pride?" 

' '  Why,  the  eldest,  you  see,  had  married  an  advent- 
uress. ' ' 

"Ah!" 

Mr.  Atherton  was  at  this  time  paying  assiduous  court 
to  a  young  married  lady  of  irreproachable  ancestry, 
position,  and  morals.  She  had  deserted  Newport  for 
six  weeks,  and  had  come  here,  accompanied  by  her 
husband  and  little  son,  to  take  mud-baths  for  her  com- 
plexion. He  had  followed  her.  It  was  to  be  supposed 
that  she  was  now  steeping  herself,  since  Mr.  Atherton 
had  a  moment  to  give  to  us. 

This  lady  was  celebrated  for  extreme  discretion  in 
discouraging  the  pursuit  of  over-warm  adorers,  without 
making  enemies  of  them.  The  women  said  it  was  her 
laugh.  Now,  there  are  all  kinds  of  laughter  :  there  is 
the  laugh  that  is  challenging,  there  is  the  laugh  that  is 
promising  ;  but  Mrs.  Remington's  was  pointed  by  no 
challenge  and  charged  with  no  promise  ;  it  was  simply 
disarming.  A  certain  gentleman  of  American  birth, 
but  foreign  breeding,  had  been  frowned  down  by  the 
young  women  because  of  too  much  boldness  of  man- 
ner. This  they  decried  in  the  heated  conclave  of  their 
drawing-rooms,  and  yet  inconsequently  countenanced 
by  asking  the  culprit  to  dine  on  the  following  day. 
He  was  once,  it  was  said,  punished  by  a  peal  of  this 
searching,  soul-cleansing,  purifying  laughter,  and  went 
forth  a  wiser,  if  a  sadder,  man. 

Mr.  Atherton' s  present  flirtation  was  a  fortunate 
source  of  conversation  for  the  perambulant  American 
on  this  summer's  morning. 

"I  cannot  see  the  fun  of  it,"  said  a  young  widow, 
who  seemed  annoyed  that  so  eligible  a  parti  should 
waste  his  forces  on  an  already  mortgaged  person. 


RAKING  STRAWS  211 

"They  sit  together  for  hours;   I  often  wonder  what 
they  find  to  talk  about." 

' '  Oh,  my  dear,  nothing  very  reprehensible,  I  will 
wager,"  said  I. 

' '  Reprehensible  !' '  She  sunk  her  eyes  and  puckered 
a  shocked  lip. 

"Well,  what?" 

' '  Mrs.  Remington  is  a  pink  of  propriety,  as  well  as 
of  elegance  ;  faultless  in  conduct  as  in  dress. ' ' 

"  I  saw  her  once  in  a  cab  with  Atherton,  crossing  the 
Rond  Point,"  said  Alva  Greene,  from  under  her  6cru 
lace  parasol.  "Was  that  good  taste?  I  cannot  see 
why  a  married  woman  who  flirts  finds  such  incon- 
ceivable delight  in  abandoning  her  sumptuous  equipage 
to  drive  about  in  dirty  cabs  with  strange  gentlemen  !" 

"What  will  you  have?  It  is  a  morbid  appetite," 
said  Singleton  Ackley,  who  had  just  taken  a  seat  beside 
us.  "The  cab,  mesdames,"  he  went  on,  "is  the 
modern  gondola " 

"And,  therefore,  a  fit  trysting-place  for  lovers?"  I 
asked. 

' '  It  seems  to  play  its  part  even  with  crown  princes 
and  royal  personages,"  he  answered,  smiling. 

"  Therefore — amen  !" 

"Every  one  is  thirsting  for  joys  that  life  does  not 
hold,"  sighed  the  widow. 

"Look  at  Mrs.  Remington's  bonnet,"  said  Miss 
Greene.  "There  is  a  joy  that  life  does  hold."  The 
lady  in  question  had  loomed  on  the  promenade. 

' '  She  has  a  new  one  every  hour  ;  one  cannot  cope 
with  her." 

"Extravagance  makes  trade,"  said  Singleton  Ack- 
ley, lighting  his  cigarette  ;  "  it  is  only  a  form  of  benev- 
olence." 


212  RAKING  STRAWS 

"The  men  adore  her." 

"She  is  not  too  clever,"  said  Singleton:  "this  is 
the  reason.  Intellectual  women  are  frightful  bores." 

"Why?" 

' '  They  expect  to  be  listened  to. ' ' 

"What  were  women  made  for  if  not  to  be  listened 
to?" 

' '  A  woman  ought  to  be  handsome  and  well 
groomed." 

"  It  costs  such  a  lot,"  said  the  widow,  sighing. 

' '  Of  course,  it  costs  a  lot, ' '  said  I  ;  "  and  so  the  in- 
genuous blue-grass  cousin  finds  out  when  she  wanders 
eastward,  imagining  that  two  new  gowns  will  solve  the 
problem." 

"  One  must  be  able  to  discard  the  failures,  and  out 
of  ten  gowns  four  or  six  are  always  failures,"  said  Miss 
Greene,  decidedly. 

"Yes,"  said  the  widow,  "and  there  are  the  shoes, 
and  the  boots,  and  the  stockings,  and  the  lingeries ;  the 
laces  and  the  furs,  the  sachets  and  the  parasols  ;  the 
soaps  and  creams  ;  the  violet-scented  hair-washes  ;  the 
dainty,  delicate  drop  upon  the  handkerchief;  the  per- 
fumed bath,  the  nail-powders.  Why,  a  smart  woman 
has  to  spend  hours  among  all  these  things,  and  the  in- 
nocent suppose  that  it  is  all  child's  play,  and  no  ex- 
pense !" 

' '  I  would  like  to  see  women  always  splendid,  like  the 
Roman  empresses,"  said  an  impecunious  youth  with  a 
thin  moustache  ;  "no  tailor-made  woman  for  me.  I 
like  satins,  velvets,  jewels." 

' '  Half  the  women  in  the  world  are  slatterns, ' '  said 
Mr.  Ackley.  "They  make  a  grave  mistake." 

"  Surely  you  do  not  think  low  physical  attraction  the 
only  one  !' ' 


RAKING  STRAWS  213 

"It  is  very  strong — the  charm  of  an  exquisite  per- 
sonality, physical  neatness,  and  sweetness.  Depend 
upon  it,  Cleopatra's  little  hand  smelt  good." 

"Tolstoi  says  it  is  all  a  snare,"  said  Alva  Greene. 

"  Physical  perfection,"  said  Mr.  Ackley,  "haunts  the 
mind  like  melodious  music  and  the  odor  of  summer 
roses.  The  senses  have  their  memory." 

' '  After  all,  it  is  temperament  that  attracts, ' '  said  Mrs. 
Vane  ;  ' '  otherwise  women  are  but  like  water-flowers, 
cold  to  the  touch  and  scentless." 

"Ah,  well,"  said  Mr.  Ackley,  "there  is  room  on 
the  earth  even  for  the  scentless  ones,  it  seems.  For- 
tunately, variety  is  everything — everything.  Why  ex- 
pect the  camellia  to  be  the  water-lily,  or  the  sweet-pea 
the  geranium  ?  No  flower  and  no  person  can  give  us 
every  attribute.  Look  at  it  in  literature.  '  She  has 
written  a  pretty  book,'  one  says,  'but  why  a  novel, 
when  it  might  have  been  an  essay  ?  why  a  song,  in- 
stead of  a  dirge?  why  a  sonnet?  why  not  a  madri- 
gal ?'  I  grow  so  sick  of  this  '  Why,  why,  why  ?'  How 
half-witted  is  the  world  !  Let  everybody  be  himself. 
Give  of  your  best,  that  is  all  I  ask.  People  say,  '  She 
gives  good  dinners,  but  is  not  a  loyal  friend. '  I  say, 
'  Eat  her  dinner  then  and  lay  no  claim  on  her  loyalty.' 
One  man  is  faithful,  another  sets  an  excellent  table. 
There  is  room  for  both.  Society  is  nothing  but  a  step- 
ping-stone ;  why  ask  of  it  religious  graces  and  tran- 
scendent virtues  ?  The  earth  is  a  very  good  place.  I 
don't  want  springs  ;  I  am  content  with  taps.  I  do  not 
expect  to  stand  on  heights,  with  immensity  above  me 
and  eagles  at  my  feet.  I  like  comfort,  and  this  place 
suits  me  very  well." 

And  here  Templeton  Vane  drove  to  the  edge  of  the 
grass,  in  his  T-cart,  threw  the  reins  to  his  groom,  and 


214  RAKING  STRAWS 

ran  up  across  the  grass.  He  had  just  arrived  from  the 
train.  He  stopped  and  kissed  his  wife's  hand.  She 
flushed  with  a  furious  pleasure  at  his  unexpected  return. 
' '  I  telegraphed  an  hour  ago  to  James  to  meet  me, ' ' 
he  said.  ' '  I  could  not  keep  away  from  you  any  longer, 
dearest ' '  I  heard  him  whisper  to  her. 

It  was  with  intention  that  I  said  a  word  to  him  later, 
when  we  returned  to  the  villa.  He  wandered  down 
across  his  flower-beds,  to  where  I  sat  under  the  plantain 
tree,  and  he  was  the  first  to  speak  of  his  married  life. 
' '  I  am  very  happy, ' '  he  said, 

"Ah?" 

' '  Yes  ;  very  much  more  than  at  first.  Madeline  is 
beginning  to  understand  me  better. ' ' 

"  Did  she  not  at  first?"  I  asked,  secretly  impatient. 

1 '  The  dear  girl  was  inclined  to  make  a  fuss  about 
things.  Do  you  know,  Mrs.  Leigh,  I  often  think  it  is 
your  influence  that  has  been  so  admirable. ' ' 

"My  influence!" 

"Yes  ;  you  are  a  woman  of  the  world,  a  woman  of 
so  much  wisdom.  Madeline  had  very  little.  It  was 
the  only  defect  of  an  otherwise  most  lovable  char- 
acter." 

1 '  You  always  said  she  was  lovable. ' ' 

' '  And  I  was  right — ahem  !  More  so  now  than  ever, 
that  I  have  ...  er  ...  trained  her,  as  it  were,  to 
suit  me." 

"She  suits  you  then,  now ?    She  understands  you ?" 

"Yes,  lately,  perfectly." 

"And  you,"  I  said,  turning  round  and  fixing  his 
amiable,  clear  eye  with  my  own,  sharply.  "  And  you? 
Do  you  suit  her  ?  Do  you  understand  her  ?' ' 

He  shifted  his  position  and  opened  his  mouth ;  his 


RAKING  STRAWS  215 

jaw  fell  and  he  remained  speechless.  ' '  Tell  me  !' '  I 
leaned  forward  clasping  my  hands.  He  had  a  puzzled 
line  between  the  roots  of  his  hair  and  his  shapely  nose. 
' '  Why  do  you  ask  such  an  odd  question  ?' '  he  said  to 
me  after  a  short  pause. 

"Oh,  idle  curiosity,  no  more.  It  cannot  be  true, 
can  it,  that  between  two  hearts  that  have  won  each 
other,  there  is  sometimes  a  wide  chasm  that  nothing 
can  bridge?"  I  felt  indignant  with  the  man  and  pro- 
voked at  the  fetters  of  my  promise  to  Mrs.  Vane.  I 
rose.  He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  seized  one  of  my 
hands.  "Why  do  you  say  this  to  me?"  he  asked, 
frowning. 

"If  you  are  an  artist,"  I  answered  him,  "who  has 
undertaken  to  play  on  a  difficult  instrument,  be  sure 
beforehand  that  you  are  strong  and  skilful.  Nothing  is 
so  pitiable  in  that  line,  my  dear  friend,  as  a  poor  per- 
formance. If  you  are  a  man  of  action,  who  has  sworn 
to  vanquish  at  all  costs,  why  do  not  fail,  like  Napoleon 
at  Waterloo.  And  now  I  am  going  in  to  rest."  I  felt 
that  I  had  been  enigmatic  ;  but  what  could  one  say 
to  a  man  so  sunk  in  the  contemplation  of  his  own 
sagacity  ? 

On  the  following  day  I  left  them  standing  side  by 
side  upon  their  porch,  as  they  waved  their  adieux  to 
me.  She  clung  to  me  a  little  at  parting,  and  she  whis- 
pered a  word  in  my  ear  with  a  blush.  I  had  suspected 
her  secret,  and  kissed  her  tenderly,  not,  however,  with- 
out a  sudden  unaccountable  anxiety  in  my  soul.  There 
was  a  wistful  look  in  her  eyes  and  a  tear,  as  I  drove 
away.  I  saw  her  turn  and  look  up  appealingly  at  her 
husband,  putting  out  her  hand  towards  him,  as  if  seek- 
ing his  to  clasp.  But  he  was  giving  an  order  to  a  ser- 
vant, who  was  coming  up  the  pathway,  and  he  did  not 


2l6  RAKING  STRAWS 

notice  her  gesture.  His  back  was  half  turned  to  me, 
and  his  own  hands  were  thrust  into  the  pockets  of  his 
short,  admirably-fitting  morning-coat.  He  drew  it  for- 
ward thus  over  his  comfortable  hips,  clearly  defining 
the  lines  of  his  fine,  stoutish  figure.  He  looked  a  per- 
fectly self-satisfied  human  being. 

VII. 

WE  had  a  quiet  sea  and  azure  heavens  all  the  way 
across  the  waters.  A  commercial  traveller  who  had 
squared  himself  into  his  camp-stool,  on  the  first  morn- 
ing, with  a  groan  and  a  "whatever  way  you  look  at 
it,  it's  aweary  ride  !"  had  taken  heart  of  grace.  He 
smoked  his  pipe  assiduously,  and  played  at  nine-pins 
with  the  betting  men  who  infested  the  deck  of  an  after- 
noon, as  if  he,  on  the  whole,  rather  enjoyed  the  dreaded 
tedium,  which  meant  to  his  ceaseless  activity  seven  days 
of  rest.  His  heavy  laugh  came  ever  and  anon,  wafted 
across  the  gaping  red  mouths  of  the  ventilators,  whose 
greasy  breath  puffed  out  above  me  where  I  crouched 
with  sea-sick  smiles.  I  used  to  watch  these  distant 
revels,  in  which  my  husband  occasionally  took  a  digni- 
fied part.  When  weary  of  this  I  chatted  with  Dr. 
Elsworth.  He  was  a  man  whom  I  knew  slightly  in 
New  York,  but  rarely  met  there.  He  was  an  eccentric 
person  of  about  fifty,  reputed  to  be  a  scholar  and  a 
student.  He  had  served  in  the  army  during  the  war, 
and  had  kept  the  habit  of  displaying  his  bulky  form 
in  a  military  cloak  ;  and  of  covering  his  locks  with  a 
wide  sombrero,  which  he  seemed  to  imagine  the  casque 
of  a  war-god.  Shy,  retiring,  with  the  reticence  which 
passes  for  modesty,  he  was,  in  fact,  intensely  vain. 
He  longed  for  appreciation,  and  begged  for  it  on  all 


RAKING  STRAWS  217 

occasions.  He  was  handsome,  with  a  broad,  ungraceful 
comeliness.  He  had  a  mild  eye,  kindly  lips,  a  large, 
benevolent,  guileless  brow.  Without  one  spark  of 
natural  genius  or  even  of  spontaneous  talent,  he  had 
risen  to  a  sort  of  unproductive  eminence,  through  an 
appalling  devotion  to  detail  and  to  study.  Just  now  he 
had  a  fine  medical  frenzy  upon  him.  Although  he  had 
graduated  in  his  youth  an  M.D.,  he  had  never  practised. 
He  had  lately  attended  a  convention  of  medical  men  in 
Germany.  He  was  full  of  their  ideas  and  his  own,  and 
we  talked  one  day  about  the  theories  of  a  celebrated 
physician,  an  alienist,  who  had  lately  delivered  a  bril- 
liant course  of  lectures.  We  were  discussing  the  fact, 
so  often  stated,  that  every  one  is  more  or  less  insane. 

"Professor  Lay,"  said  the  doctor  in  his  monotone, 
' '  makes  a  physiological  classification.  His  principle 
is  that  an  order  of  morbid  phenomena  in  insanity  is 
identical  with  that  of  health  phenomena  modified.  The 
ancients  thought  and  wrote  much  on  these  subjects. 
Aretaeus  recognized  mania  and  dementia.  Dr.  Ar- 
nold classifies  ideal,  notional,  and  pathetic  insanity. 
Esquirol,  the  pupil  of  Pinel,  tells  us  that  monomania 
is  the  disorder  of  the  faculties  limited  to  one  of  a  small 
number  of  objects,  the  predominance  of  a  gay  expan- 
siveness  being  one  form,  while  the  most  common  is 
grandiose  monomania." 

While  he  spoke  I  rebuked  my  husband  for  a  lack  of 
indignation  at  the  carelessness  and  want  of  neatness  of 
one  of  the  deck-stewards,  and  finding  it  impossible  to 
excite  his  wrath,  I  flung  at  him  my  usual  accusation, 
' '  You  are  phlegmatic  !' ' 

"Hold!  hold!  my  dear  lady,"  said  Dr.  Elsworth. 
"  Nobody  really  is  phlegmatic." 

' '  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?' ' 
K  19 


2l8  RAKING  STRAWS 

"Exactly  this:  one  person  screams  and  cries  out, 
and  is  relieved.  The  other  holds  his  peace  and  gets 
neurosis. ' ' 

"Why,  what  an  odd  idea  !" 

' '  Depend  upon  it,  there  is  something  in  it.  I  have 
been  studying  these  theories." 

As  he  droned  on,  somehow  my  thoughts  reverted  to 
Mrs.  Vane.  He  was  still  talking  upon  these  matters, 
when  the  stars  came  out  in  the  black-blue  heights  of 
the  serene  dome  over  our  heads.  I  wondered  if  I  my- 
self had  not  done  injustice  to  some  of  the  silent  sufferers 
about  me,  to  my  good  husband,  for  instance,  who  was 
always  tranquil  as  a  god.  But  one  hates  to  be  pinned 
to  acknowledge  one  has  been  wrong, — to  make  any 
concessions.  Right  or  wrong,  one  does  like  to  stick 
to  one's  convictions.  I  still  felt  inclined  to  believe 
that  a  heart  that  could  not  overflow  in  speech  or  action 
was  too  feeble  for  emotion. 

VIII. 

THE  next  time  that  I  heard  of  Madeline  it  was  at  a 
dinner  party.  I  had  gone  rather  unwillingly  to  this 
banquet.  When  we  returned  to  the  drawing-room  after 
dinner  I  found  myself  in  a  group  of  young  women  not 
especially  pleasing  or  congenial  to  me.  One  of  them, 
indeed,  I  knew  but  slightly,  and  perhaps  on  this  account 
admired.  I  might  have  found  her  sufficiently  interest- 
ing to  detain  in  conversation,  had  she  not  almost  in- 
stantly withdrawn  from  the  rest  of  us,  to  look  at  a  case 
of  miniatures  which  stood  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
apartment.  She  was  ostensibly  examining  these  por- 
traits, which  dainty  trifles  were  exhibited  in  a  wide  or- 
molu cabinet ;  but  I  think  that  we  probably  bored  her. 


RAKING  STRAWS  219 

We  were  all  married  women  except  one  maiden  of 
thirty-two  summers,  who  was  herself  shortly  to  enter 
into  the  coveted  privileges  of  the  madame.  She  had 
been  extremely  handsome,  and  still  dressed  and  posed 
for  a  beauty  ;  but  it  was  said  of  her  beauty  that  a  num- 
ber of  vicissitudes  of  the  heart  had  left  scars  upon  it. 
I  have  already  mentioned  her  name :  it  was  Alva 
Greene. 

She  was  recounting  to  a  somewhat  restive  listener 
the  culminating  experience  of  her  lot,  and  the  perfec- 
tions of  the  happy  suitor  she  was  about  to  bless.  ' '  There 
is  no  question  about  it,"  she  was  saying, — "and  you 
know  if  I  am  credulous — he  simply  never  looked  at 
another  woman." 

' '  Really  ?' '  The  lady  she  addressed,  a  sharp-eyed, 
thin-lipped  brunette,  glanced  at  her  with  that  profound 
distrust  with  which  one  woman  views  the  passion  that 
another  inspires. 

"Never!"  (this  aggressively.)  "It  gives  one  such 
security,  such  peace."  Miss  Greene  thought  the  best 
defence  was  to  be  herself  the  attacking  party. 

' '  I  have  heard  he  was  devoted  to  his  first  wife, ' '  said 
the  brunette,  ' '  which  is  always  an  excellent  guarantee 
of  the  future." 

There  was  a  moment's  painful  silence.  "  Devoted 
is  a  mere  word,"  said  Miss  Greene,  irritably.  "  Kind, 
of  course,  he  was.  He  is  the  soul  of  honor  and  gen- 
tlemanliness.  She  was  a  puny,  fretful  invalid.  He  had 
her  looked  after,  of  course. ' ' 

"Oh!" 

The  ripe  maiden  blushed  and  smiled  coyly.  "  But 
when  he  saw  me, — it  was  at  the  Greshams  dance,  you 
know,  last  year " 

"  I  remember  it." 


220  RAKING   STRAWS 

"It  was  a  thunderbolt — instantaneous.  He  never 
had  felt  love  before. ' ' 

"  Fancy  !"  The  ejaculation  savored  of  a  slight 
irony.  Surely  such  confidence  deserved  a  better 
faith. 

"  His  has  been  a  life  singularly  free  from  ...  I 
mean  exemplary  in  every  respect.  No  women  at  all, — 
no  complications  of  that  sort.  First,  his  career,  and 
then  exercise.  It  is  wonderful,  with  such  an  intellect, 
his  love  for  manly  sports." 

"How  old  is  he?"  asked  the  other  lady,  abruptly, 
stirring  nervously  in  her  chair,  and  propping  up  her 
long  chin  upon  a  tanned  Suede  hand. 

"  Forty-nine." 

"Only  that?" 

' '  Why  ?  doesn'  t  he  look  much  younger  ?  Every- 
body says  so." 

"  He  varies." 

"  Ah,  he  is  true, — true  and  pure." 

"Oh,  my  dear  !  Of  course,  one's  lover  is  all  these 
things,  always — like  one's  mother,"  and  the  lady 
laughed  rather  unpleasantly. 

"  Do  you  think  me  easily  duped  ?"  asked  thejf£g8£&, 
in  an  offended  whisper. 

"My  dear,  why  do  you  ask  me  such  a  quaint 
question  ?' ' 

"  You  seem  to  think  ..." 

' '  I  should  suppose,  being  so  beloved,  you  would 
not  care  what  people  thought.  I  should  be  quite 
indifferent  if  I  had  the  luck  to  inspire  such  senti- 
ments." 

' '  Of  course,  you  understand  that  a  woman  of  my 
charm  and  accustomed  to  such  a  lot  of  attention  would 
refuse  to  put  up  with  another  woman's  leavings." 


RAKING  STRAWS  221 

"Why,  of  course,  my  dear  !  Only  you  know  peo- 
ple are  so  nasty,  they  never  will  think  or  say  what  we 
want  them  to." 

The  virgin  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  at  her  friend 
with  a  gleam  of  resentment.  ' '  They  may  say  what 
they  like.  I  never  saw  such  mad  devotion.  His 
pursuit  was  simply  terrific,  although,  of  course,  always 
full  of  respect  and  even  of  formality,"  she  added, 
apologetically. 

"  I  should  think  you  would  have  been  frightened." 

' '  Well,  almost,  at  first ;  but  now,  of  course,  he  is 
calmer  :"  this  with  another  coy  shiver. 

' '  Yes,  naturally  ;  the  approach  of  marriage  is  always 
a  sedative. ' ' 

' '  I  suppose  persons  judge  from  their  own  experi- 
ence." Resentment  is  accumulative. 

' '  My  own  experience  tells  me  that  it  is  effectively 
calming." 

' '  That  depends  on  how  one  begins.  Now  I  do  not 
intend  to  make  a  mess  of  my  husband's  life." 

' '  Of  course  not ;  you  have  had  such  a  nice  long  time 
to  make  all  your  plans.  /  was  married  extremely 
young."  This  was  too  much,  and  the  bride-elect  rose 
hastily  and  joined  me  and  a  doll-like  little  lady  who  was 
recounting  the  bewildering  fascinations  of  her  first-born 
infant.  "  He  has  such  a  fat  little  leg — you  can't  im- 
agine !  and  he  crows  so,  and  shuts  up  one  eye.  He  is 
the  very  image  of  Theodore, — just  his  father's  nose. 
Don't  you  remember  that  dent  between  the  nostrils? 
Isn't  it  odd  that  children  should  resemble  their  father? 
It  is  inconceivable.  I  asked  the  doctor  about  it.  He 
says  there  is  some  scientific  reason.  He  explained  it  as 
best  he  could  ;  it  was  most  instructive.  He  is  exactly 
like  his  father,  too,  in  character,  in  everything,  the 

19* 


222  RAKING  STRAWS 

same  strong  will  and  tenacity  of  purpose,  with  self- 
respect,  ambition,  dignity." 

"How  old  is  he?"  I  asked,  quoting  the  question 
which  had  lately  been  put  on  the  other  side  of  the 
lamp-shade,  across  the  palm-tree. 

"Eight  weeks." 

' '  And  all  these  traits  already  developed  !  Why,  he 
must  indeed  be  a  marvel  of  precocity  !" 

1 '  Yes.  Crumpet,  the  English  nurse,  says  it  is  an 
unusual  case  ;  she  never  saw  anything  like  it  before." 

I  commended  Crumpet' s  sagacity  and  insight. 

' '  She  is  excellent,  and  so  cheery,  and  likes  the  place. 
We  took  her  from  Lady  de  Horton.  Lady  de  Horton's 
baby  was  called  James  John  De  Courcy  Peveril  of  the 
Peak  Drummond." 

"Poor  baby!" 

"He  was  never  allowed  cow's  milk,  although  his 
mother  ..." 

I  had  kept  one  ear  upon  the  dialogue  across  the 
lamp,  and  now,  seeing  the  betrothed  making  a  double- 
quick  advance  in  my  direction  on  the  points  of  her 
high-heeled  satin  shoes,  I  took  refuge  behind  a  screen, 
and  sank  on  a  sofa,  beside  a  lady  to  whom  I  had  been 
presented  by  our  hostess  on  my  arrival.  The  latter  had 
since  informed  me,  in  a  voice  tinged  with  acute  suffer- 
ing, that  this  .  .  .  person  .  .  .  was  the  widow  of 
' '  dear  Charlie  Lomax,  you  know,  who  was  killed  at 
Snake's  Creek,  in  an  Indian  engagement,"  and  that 
the  said  Mrs.  Lomax  was  inconveniently  in  town  from 
Snakeville,  Oregon,  and  had  been  crushed  in  at  this 
dinner,  at  the  last  moment,  and  under  protest.  "  He 
married  her  out  there,  you  know,"  she  added,  as  she 
looked  across  at  her  relative,  with  a  tormented  eye. 
"  Would  you  mind  saying  just  a  little  tiny  word  to  her,- 


RAKING  STRAWS  223 

by  and  by?  She  doesn't  know  a  soul,  and  the  women 
are  so  horrid  to  strangers  !"  She  stopped  to  take 
breath,  and  I  noticed  that  she  had  a  good  deal  more  to 
say,  but  that,  after  an  instant's  reflection,  she  concluded 
it  was  not  well-bred  to  criticise  a  guest.  She  had  grace- 
fully glided  on.  I  good-naturedly  promised  to  devote 
myself,  after  dinner,  to  the  Snakeville  widow,  and  now 
proceeded  to  win  my  spurs.  I  approached  the  fair 
unknown  with  a  somewhat  patronizing  manner,  and 
laudable  purpose  of  affability,  but  she  did  not  meet 
my  advances  with  the  embarrassed  delight  which  my 
civilities  should  have  commanded. 

"  It's  awfully  hot  in  this  parlor  !"  was  her  first  greet- 
ing, in  a  tone  in  which  there  lurked  a  certain  combative 
quality.  I  offered  her  my  fan.  "Thanks;  I've  got 
one  myself."  She  had  early  in  the  evening  attracted 
my  attention  by  her  extreme  prettiness,  the  youthful- 
ness  of  her  appearance,  and  the  peculiarities  of  her  cos- 
tume. It  is  needless  to  say  that  all  the  other  women 
were  in  full  dress,  and  some  of  them  even  in  diaphanous 
ball-gowns,  crowned  with  flowers,  intending  to  be  driven 
straight  from  the  dinner  to  an  early  dance,  without 
change  of  raiment.  But  Mrs.  Lomax  was  not  in  a  ball- 
gown. It  would  have  been  indeed  difficult  to  determine 
for  what  peculiar  function  her  accoutrement  had  been 
constructed.  She  had  on  a  species  of  loose  shirt  or 
blouse,  which  met  a  skirt  fulled  at  the  hips  with  a  wisp 
of  gold.  It  was  as  shapeless  as  a  domino,  or  the  petti- 
coat of  a  dancing  dervish.  It  was  made  of  some  flimsy 
summer  fabric,  and  was  of  a  faint  green  color.  As  she 
moved,  one  had  an  uncomfortable  sensation  that  she 
had  possibly  forgotten  to  put  on  her  underclothes,  and 
one  hoped  the  draught  from  the  door  would  not  convert 
this  half-acknowledged  fear  into  certainty.  The  shirt, 


224  RAKING  STRAWS 

which  reached  her  creamy  throat,  was  fastened  by  a  bit 
of  white  lace,  and  a  large  round  seed-pearl  brooch. 

Her  hair,  profuse  and  golden,  was  cut  short,  and 
curled  all  over  her  head.  It  stood  straight  out  like  a 
halo  or  arch,  from  one  small  ear  to  the  other,  thus 
framing  her  high,  pale  forehead.  It  was  generously 
decked  with  a  scattering  of  seed-pearls.  On  her  feet 
she  wore  light-green  stockings  and  black  velvet  slippers 
with  large  buckles.  The  tender  tone  of  her  com- 
plexion, which  was  of  a  soft  ivory  tint,  was  rudely  dis- 
pelled by  a  color  on  each  cheek-bone,  so  distinctly 
unnatural  that  one  felt  thankful  the  shaded  lamps 
blended  the  effect  with  merciful  discretion.  But  the 
scarlet  curves  of  her  moist  young  lips  were  genuine. 
She  wore  very  tight  lavender  seamless  gloves,  not  en- 
tirely drawn  on  at  the  ends  of  the  fingers,  and  from  a 
ring  and  chain  on  her  little  finger  there  depended  a  lace 
pocket-handkerchief,  trimmed  at  its  edge  with  a  wide 
lace  flounce. 

Notwithstanding  her  remarkable  outfit,  and  in  spite 
of  it,  she  was  the  handsomest  person  present.  Her  pro- 
file had  the  regularity  of  a  carved  cameo.  Her  wide, 
deep  eyes,  with  their  curled  lashes,  were  singularly  ex- 
pressive. Her  face  offered  the  mixture  of  types  repre- 
sented by  Greek  art  and  the  more  piquant  modernity 
of  the  French  masters.  Her  eyes,  at  present,  were  filled 
with  infinite  disdain.  I  asked  her,  to  make  conver- 
sation, if  she  had  seen  our  host's  collection  of  minia- 
tures. 

She  bit  her  lip.  ' '  I  looked  at  them  for  a  while, 
before  dinner, ' '  she  said.  ' '  They  are  awful.  I  can  do 
better  than  that  myself." 

' '  Have  you  studied  art  abroad  ?' ' 

' '  Bless  me,  yes  !     I  took  three  years  in  an  atelier  in 


RAKING  STRAWS  22$ 

Paris,  first  on  still-life,  then  from  the  nude.     I  can  do 
very  well  in  oils,  and  those  little  heads,  too. ' ' 

"Have  you  travelled  much?"  I  asked,  suavely. 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  have  been  everywhere  ;  I  went  around 
the  world  with  my  brother  ;  he  was  engineering.  Why, 
it  was  in  Russia  I  met  the  colonel."  I  presumed  the 
"colonel"  was  her  dead  lord.  "Yes,"  she  went  on, 
' '  we  got  engaged  at  Tsarkoe  S61o,  in  the  grotto  they 
call  Caprice." 

This  was  unusual,  romantic,  and  I  said  so. 

"Ah,"  she  sighed,  "yes!  It  was  romantic.  I've 
had  a  lot  of  that  in  my  life.  When  you've  travelled 
round  and  then  been  on  the  plains  and  at  army-posts, 
and  hunting  buffaloes,  a  place  like  New  York  seems 
awfully  tame.  I  kind  of  pity  you  all  here  !" 

I  agreed  that  we  were,  in  fact,  very  tame, — chimney 
sparrows,  house-flies,  tepid  and  insignificant,  hopping 
about  hopelessly  in  search  of  entertainment. 

"I've  led  a  queer  life,"  she  went  on,  "and  had  a 
lot  of  trouble  ;  but  it  was  not  dull  a  bit.  What  a  horrid 
smell  those  lamps  make  !"  she  added,  widening  the 
delicate  nostrils  of  her  perfect  nose. 

' '  We  think  these  French  things  an  improvement  on 
gas  ;  but  I  see  one  is  turned  up  too  high." 

' '  We  only  use  the  electric  in  Snakeville  ;  we  consider 
these  oils  offensive.  But,  then,  the  residences  there 
are  so  large." 

Residences  !  I  knew  Snakeville.  I  saw  it.  I  knew 
that  no  one  got  up  there,  and  no  one  went  to  bed  ;  but 
that  every  one  "rose,"  and  every  one  "retired,"  and, 
in  fact,  that  the  most  trifling  detail  of  life  was  enacted 
with  august  and  solemn  elegance.  No  one  lived  in 
Snakeville  ;  people  "  resided."  There  were  no  houses, 
but  "palatial  residences." 
P 


226  RAKING  STRAWS 

"This  is  a  charming  drawing-room — don't  you  think 
so  ?"  I  said,  lowering  my  voice,  lest  our  hostess  should 
overhear  our  criticisms.  "Don't  you  find  this  Louis 
Seize  room  admirably  carried  out?" 

"  It  seems  mighty  small  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Lomax  ; 
"why  Senator  Packer's  is  a  regular  castle,  all  white 
marble  and  an  onyx  staircase,  with  a  gold  railing  to  it. 
They  have  got  a  gallery  a  hundred  feet  long,  with  the 
most  splendid  pictures, — Meissoniers  and  G6romes  and 
all  that.  His  wife,  Mrs.  Packer,  is  a  very  fine  woman ; 
did  you  ever  chance  to  meet  her?  She's  very  dressy. 
I  happened  to  call  on  her  once  when  she  was  retiring. 
She  had  me  called  to  her  room.  She  had  on  a  brocade 
night-gown  covered  with  crystal  drops  ;  it  was  made  in 
Paris.  Did  you  ever  meet  her  ?' '  she  repeated. 

I  had  never  met  Mrs.  Packer,  and  so  I  informed  her, 
adding  that  the  Snakeville  ladies  must  indeed  be  very 
superb  if  they  went  to  bed  encrusted  with  crystals. 
Whether  she  thought  my  remark  impertinent,  I  cannot 
tell ;  but  she  flushed  and  frowned. 

"When  we  retire  to  our  bedchambers,"  she  an- 
swered, ' '  we  are  not  in  the  habit  of  receiving  company ; 
but  Mrs.  Packer  is  always  very  dressy,  whether  she  is 
at  parties  or  on  the  street.  I  have  seen  nothing  here 
that  came  up  to  her,"  and  her  regard  rested  with  ill- 
disguised  contempt  upon  Miss  Greene's  severe  satin. 

My  amiable  intentions  of  condescension  having  been 
rudely  quelled,  and  finding  myself  strangely  uncom- 
fortable and  ill  at  ease,  I  ventured  timidly  to  inquire  if 
she  considered  Miss  Greene  handsome. 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Lomax,  shaking  her  yellow  curls ; 
"at  least,  she  wouldn't  pass  for  such  out  in  Oregon.  I 
reckon  out  there  she  wouldn't  get  much  attention,  not 
at  her  age.  She's  fady-looking,  but  I  think  all  the 


RAKING  STRAWS  227 

New  York  women  look  that  way, — sort  of  frayed  out." 
I  involuntarily  cast  a  furtive  glance  at  myself  in  a 
neighboring  mirror ;  she  was  right ;  we  were  ' '  frayed 
out ;' '  I  felt  it  coming  on  like  a  fit  of  ague. 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  our  men?  Do  they 
please  you  better  ?' '  I  asked. 

Her  scarlet  cheek  turned  quickly  to  my  question. 
' '  I  think  they  are  dreadfully  dumb — all  those  I  have 
met,  at  least." 

"  Are  the  gentlemen  in  Snakeville  so  eloquent?" 

She  laughed;  yes,  she  was  very  lovely.  "They 
know  a  handsome  woman  when  they  see  her,  and  how 
to  make  her  realize  it,"  she  answered.  "That  is  some- 
thing more  than  the  men  here  seem  to  fathom." 

"  They  tell  her  so  ?" 

"Well,  they  are  not  backward." 

"  I  am  sure,  then,  you  must  have  had  many  such 
declarations." 

"Oh,  my  share,  when  I  was  a  girl!  I  have  only 
begun  to  go  out  again  lately,  since  I  took  off  my  black 
for  the  colonel." 

"Has  any  one  heard  anything  more  about  Mrs. 
Vane  ?' '  a  voice  spoke  on  the  other  side  of  the  screen. 

"Why?"  asked  I,  emerging  startled,  "what  is  there 
to  hear  about  Mrs.  Vane?" 

"  Why,  don't  you  know?"  said  the  others  in  chorus  ; 
"we  thought  you  were  her  intimate  friend."  I  had  not 
heard  and  told  them  so. 

"Well,"  said  the  first  speaker,  in  a  distrait  tone,  one 
eye  on  the  door,  from  which  shortly  would  emerge  a 
pair  of  broad  shoulders  she  was  supposed  to  be  waiting 
for,  ' '  her  baby  was  born  too  soon,  and  she  has  gone 
mad." 

"Mad?"  I  started,  shaken  to  the  heart. 


228  RAKING  STRAWS 

"Well,  no,  not  exactly  that,  but  a  sort  of  melan- 
choly. They  cannot  rouse  her." 

"  I  heard  it  was  monomania." 

"Why,  what?" 

* '  That  she  fancies  she  must  not  tell  something  that 
is  on  her  mind,  I  know  not  what.  Lillie  Lawton  saw 
her — says  it  is  so  sad." 

"It  was  a  miserable  match  for  him,"  said  Alva 
Greene ;  ' '  she  had  not  a  sou.  His  mother  tried  to 
break  it  up,  but  he  would  not  listen.  There  were  stories 
about  her  before,  were  there  not?" 

"  Oh,  lots  of  them  !     Her  husband  drank." 

' '  Do  you  call  that  a  story  about  her  ?' ' 

"You  can't  tell;  she  may  have  driven  him  to 
it." 

"But  that  is  only  a  surmise." 

"  His  mother  did  not  wish  him  to  marry  one  of  those 
women  about  whom  there  are  .  .  .  surmises." 

"  Naturally.  Wasn't  there  some  story  about  a  man 
in  love  with  her  ?' ' 

' '  Since  when  is  it  a  crime  for  a  woman  to  have  a  man 
in  love  with  her  ?' ' 

' '  My  dear,  you  are  not  aware  that  at  that  time  she 
was  a  married  woman  ?' '  said  Miss  Greene. 

' '  Pshaw  !  If  she  was  fascinating,  she  couldn'  t  help 
herself!" 

"  She  was  fascinating,  to  men." 

"  Lillie  Lawton  says  it's  quite  shocking,  she  looks  so 
dreadfully,  and  never  will  speak,  never  opens  her  lips. 
He  is  in  despair, — sits  all  day  outside  her  door,  listen- 
ing, listening.  The  most  awful  thing  is  .  .  .  ' 

"Outside  her  door?" 

"Yes.  She  has  taken  a  violent  dislike  to  him,  and 
shrinks  from  him  as  if  she  feared  him." 


RAKING  STRAWS  229 

"  How  lamentable,  when  he  broke  his  mother's  heart 
to  marry  her,  and  heaped  everything  upon  her  !" 

"  But  wasn't  she  always  rather  queer  ?" 

"I  don't  know;  she  was  awfully  attractive, — yes, 
queer,  I  think ;  no  doubt  eccentric.  She  posed  for  a 
femme  incomprise" 

' '  Perhaps  she  was  one, ' '  said  a  quiet  voice.  It  was 
that  of  the  lady  whom  I  admired,  and  who  had  sat 
apart  over  the  miniatures. 

And  I,  who  loved  Madeline,  rose  quickly  and  hurried 
towards  her,  lest  the  others  should  see  my  tears. 


20 


The  Moujik 


OUT  of  the  dusk  they  stepped  together, — out  of 
the  dimness  of  smoking  incense  and  swinging 
lamps,  of  grim  ikons  and  white-robed  choristers,  of 
chanting  priests  and  bowed  worshippers.  They  were 
the  nearer  to  each  other  because  they  were  both  strangers 
in  that  far  land  of  snow  and  ice  whose  splendor  and 
coldness  had  shot  its  mystic  chill  into  their  hearts. 
Together,  I  say,  they  came  out  of  the  deep,  warm 
cathedral  into  the  pallid  glow  of  the  winter's  evening, 
into  the  vagueness  of  the  snowy  street,  into  the  lonely 
stillness  of  the  deserted  square ;  and  those  strange 
anthems  of  an  immortal  melancholy  seemed  to  pursue 
their  hurrying,  belated  feet.  Yet  her  eyes  were  full  of 
sunshine  as  she  swayed  like  a  shadowy  lily,  tall  and 
elegant  in  her  rich  furs,  against  the  western  light. 

Under  the  sleeping  Neva  sighed  the  tides,  and  the 
birds  calling  to  each  other  were  fleeing  fast.  She  smiled, 
but  he  was  grave,  and  they  spoke  of  many  things  to- 
gether. He  taught  her  of  this  curious  nation,  with  its 
poverty  and  its  riches,  its  ignorance  and  its  insight,  and 
of  that  superstitious  rite  whose  hush  was  still  upon 
them.  "  It  is  a  sublime  caprice,"  he  said. 

Just  then,  passing  from  pavement  to  pavement,  a 
230 


THE  MOUJIK  231 

plaint  reached  them,  a  child's  plaint,  loud  and  passion- 
ate, borne  on  the  wind-gust  that  brushed  them  with  its 
wing.  They  looked  up.  Leaning  against  the  railing, 
where  the  white  drifts  had  massed  themselves  in  waves 
of  a  strange  loveliness,  stood  a  little  boy.  He  was 
weeping  bitterly,  wringing  his  hands,  filling  earth  and 
air  with  his  distress.  Swiftly  they  moved  to  where  he 
stood.  By  his  side  lay  a  broken  image,  a  small,  white, 
plaster  thing,  such  as  Italian  venders  carry  on  their 
heads  and  sell  in  the  thoroughfares  of  great  cities.  She 
stooped  and  spoke  to  him  : 

' '  So  you  have  broken  it,  my  little  lad  ?  What  was  it 
worth?"  and  her  companion  began  to  unbutton  his 
military  coat,  fumbling  in  his  breast  for  his  pocket-book. 

"  Dvar  rublf:"  sobbed  the  child. 

He  was  a  dirty  little  moujik,  with  a  round  face  roughed 
by  the  weather.  His  eyes  gleamed  large  and  dark  under 
his  greasy  old  fur  cap.  His  miserable  touloupe  was 
caught  about  his  strong  young  loins  by  a  wisp  of  hemp 
rope. 

In  a  moment  the  sum  he  named,  with  a  generous 
surplus,  was  pushed  into  one  of  his  icy  hands.  Then 
instantly,  with  a  piercing  cry  of  joy  which  rent  the 
twilight  mists,  the  little  fellow  fell  on  the  snow  at  their 
feet.  He  lay  face  downward,  and  three  times  his  head 
rose  and  fell. 

' '  What  has  happened  to  him  ?' '  said  the  lady, 
frightened. 

But  in  a  moment  she  had  seen.  His  lips  were  moving; 
he  was  beating  his  hands  upon  his  heart  and  crossing 
himself  with  vehemence.  When  he  sprang  once  more 
to  his  feet  he  was  still  praying, — nay,  giving  his  thanks 
to  Heaven  ;  there  was  a  rapt  look  on  his  face.  To  his 
benefactor  he  accorded  only  one  timid  upward  glance 


232 


THE  MOUJIK 


of  gratitude.  Then,  gathering  his  poor  garments  about 
him,  he  ran  away  quickly  and  disappeared  in  the  falling 
gloom. 

"Ah,"  said  the  lady,  "my  friend,  where  shall  we 
find  again,  you  and  I,  the  beautiful  faith  of  this  child 
soul?" 

"If  it  be  folly,  it  is  a  divine  one,"  said  her  com- 
panion. 

She  remained  silent,  and  they  walked  onward,  saying 
no  more  words.  But  upon  her  eyelashes  a  tear  had 
frozen. 


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